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AN ADIRONDACK GUIDE* 



AT BROWN’S 


AN ADIRONDACK STORY 


BY 

JEAN KATE LUDLUM 

w 

AUTHOR OF 



Was He Wise ? The Minister' s Wife , etc., etc. 



NEW YORK: HUNT & EA TON 
CINCINNA TI: CRANSTON & STOWE 
1890 



Copyright, 1890, by 
HUNT & EATON, 
New York. 




CONTENTS 


CHAPTER I. page 

The Arrival 5 

CHAPTER II. 

Rough Heartiness 23 

CHAPTER III. 

Mrs. Brown 41 

CHAPTER IY. 

The Hills of God 60 

CHAPTER Y. 

A New Acquaintance 81 

CHAPTER YI. 

A Sabbath Lesson 99 

CHAPTER YII. 

These Trifles 119 

CHAPTER YIII. 

A Canvas 139 

CHAPTER IX. 

Taken Out of Her Hands 160 


4 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER X. page 

The Work op a Minute 180 

CHAPTER XI. 

Unconscious Influence 200 

CHAPTER XII. 

Jack’s Aspirations 220 

CHAPTER XIII. 

Loyalty 238 

CHAPTER XIV. 

A Glimpse at Fruition 257 

CHAPTER XT. 

Truest Nobility 275 

CHAPTER XVI. 

A Fertile Brain 293 

CHAPTER XVII. 

Among the Shadows 313 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

Natural Conclusions 332 


AT BROWN’S. 


AN ADIRONDACK STORY. 


CHAPTER I. 

THE ARRIVAL. 

“Judge not according to the appearance.” — Bible. 

Ada was very quiet. The journey up from the 
city had been long and tiresome. Wearisome was 
the din of the stations at which they stopped during 
the night, the jangling bells, the rumble and roar of 
the train rushing up and up higher among the mount- 
ains, with the darkness shutting off all view ; but the 
rumble and roar allowed only snatches of sleep, only a 
fitful closing of the tired lids over the weary eyes, only 
the silencing of troubled thought for a brief space. 
Then again would come the rumble and roar and tu- 
mult of the train and the dim sense of a loneliness 
that would never be filled by the love that had left 
her for all her life when her mother died. Then it 


6 


AT BROWN'S. 


had seemed to her the world could hold nothing worse 
through all the years she was likely to live, in spite 
of the fact that their kindly old doctor had sent her 
among the mountains to gather a firmer hold of life 
after the strain upon her, mentally and physically, 
during her mother’s illness. 

She was very quiet. The marvelous beauty of the 
scenery through which the train was moving attracted 
her eyes, but at the time made little impression upon 
her mind. The glimpses of the heart of the mighty 
woods, with here and there a flashing of water half 
veiled in yellow clouds of gusty snow, where the faint 
sunlight sifted through, struggling with the ruder 
spirit of the storm that would gain a hold upon the 
rugged nature spread out on all sides. There were 
touches of bleak landscape with sheep scattering like 
wool at the approach of the train with its shrill whis- 
tle ; bare slopes with blackened stumps of what had 
once been the giants of the wilderness when the red 
men ruled the wasted lands; fallen trunks hurled 
across the wild stream here and there as if the spirits 
of the woods were broken and hurled with their feet 
into the shouting water. It was all very wild, all 
very picturesque ; the wilderness was beautiful with 
its grandeur and its wildness ; but to the tired eyes 


THE ARRIVAL. 


7 


gazing out upon tlie slowly changing scenery it was so 
totally unlike home, so utterly desolate and lonely, that 
the tears would come blindingly now and then, and 
the curved lips quiver with half-suppressed determina- 
tion to be a woman and put self aside as mother wished 
her daughter always to do. But it w T as all so dread- 
fully unhomelike, all so strange and wild; every 
tiling that lay before was so unknown, not a soul in 
all the vast wilderness to which she was going did she 
know ; not one out of all whom she might see could 
she call a friend. 

But she must get herself out of this feeling of 
pent-up suffering, the doctor said ; she must have a 
total change of surroundings and a breath of pure 
air for the overtaxed lungs. So here she was, wind- 
ing in and out through the great wilderness, without 
a friend within hundreds of miles of her, and no one — 

She paused here and caught her breath in a sort of 
gasp. Was there really no one ? No friend in all the 
stretch of wood and mountain? No one on whom 
she could call should she need a friend ? Where were 
her mother’s teachings? Where was her mother’s 
loving heart, that had always so trusted and rested in 
the marvelous love above and around and within the 
world ? No friend ? 


8 


AT BROWN'S. 


A faint, slow smile stirred the lips that had been 
so used to smiling in the old days, and a touch of 
laughter glimmered in the wide eyes set on the outer 
world. Yes, she was in the wilderness, she was miles 
and miles away from her friends, she was going among 
strangers as fast as the train could take her, but even 
there she was not alone after all ! She had but to 
utter an inner cry, but to lift her aching heart to the 
tender love around her, and her Father would hear 
and answer all she could desire ! Her Father would 
lean down to her in such love and compassion and 
pity for her loneliness as her earthly friends could 
not do if they wished, and there would come comfort 
in her heart and a peace and hush of all troubled 
thought. 

It was a rough little mountain village to which she 
was going, and she had . never been in such a place. 
They had been to the country always in summer, she 
and her mother, but always to some fashionable plabe 
where cultured people could be found ; and what she 
should ever do among these mountain people she did 
not know. 

She was nearing the end of her journey ; noon was 
approaching ; Lion Mountain had been passed long 
before; Paul Smith’s station had gone by, and Loon 


THE ARRIVAL. 


9 


Lake, and now Bloomingdale. She shivered ; it was 
stifling in the car, but the air from the windows sifted 
through, and was sharp and cutting. October was 
well on the w T ay into chilly November, and here 
among the northern mountains the atmosphere was 
different from that of the city by the sea. 

The train was crawling up the last incline ; the 
whistle sounded harsh and discordant through the 
snowy air. It slowed up and stopped ; the village 
was reached. It was the last stop on the road, and 
the train did not start on its return trip under an hour 
or two ; one could take one’s time about leaving the 
train. 

Ada gathered up her satchel and umbrella listlessly ; 
she lingered behind the few passengers who were un- 
decided about alighting, some anxious to leave as if it 
were their home station ; others, weak, frail-looking 
passengers, with coughs that fairly startled the girl, 
lingering, as she was doing, as if it were to them also 
a strange station where no friends would meet them. 
Ada felt sorry for them. She was sorry for herself, and 
they seemed somehow so like herself, so little anxious 
to leave the only thing that connected them with their 
friends, so apparently ill and going among strangers, 
that her warm heart was touched. She said nothing ; 


10 


AT BROWN'S. 


she had not the gift to talk easily with strangers, and 
they might think her presuming should she utter some 
little friendly nothing as they straggled from the train ! 

There was a small crowd on the narrow platform, 
some of them evidently visitors who had come to 
meet the train and get the mail which it brought. 
There was a stage that took the mail-bag and stowed it 
away safely under the driver’s seat ; there was another 
stage at the rear of the station with “ Fowler’s Liv- 
ery” in gilt letters on the side — all of these she noted 
as one will these trivial things at such a time — and 
there were one or two private conveyances straggling 
here and there. 

At the west rose a dreary hill of black pines, and out 
to the south lay the scattered village dreary as no word 
could describe to the weary, homesick eyes searching 
for something that should be like home. She did not 
hear the drivers calling the stages, she caught , indis- 
tinctly the jovial greeting of the station men and the 
train hands ; she was thinking what a desolate thing it 
was to come to the heart of the wilderness, and have 
no friend near to welcome one — not a face out of 
the few faces, it was true, which was familiar. She 
clutched her satchel desperately and held to her um- 
brella as if they were the only two in this strange 


TEE ARRIVAL. 


11 


world of which she could be sure, and she swallowed 
the lump that would rise in her throat and somehow 
choke her, and faced with steady eyes the desolate 
landscape, the desolate station, the blunt faces, and un- 
known men around her. There was not one of them 
she knew ; who or which one was to meet her she 
did not know ; whether or not she was expected to find 
her boarding-place herself she was uncertain. She 
did not like to ask ; it was dreadful to have to ask ; 
but what could she do ? No one came up to ask where 
she was going or what she wanted, and she must do 
something. 

u Where can I find the Browns?” she ventured, as 
bravely as she could, pausing before a rough-looking 
man near the huge heater in the small waiting-room. 
It was impossible to get near the ticket-office with the 
crowd of men around it ; she must ask some one, and 
this man looked no rougher than the rest. She did 
not smile, but there was a touch of sadness around 
her mouth that went to the man’s heart. He said 
afterward she was such a frail mite of a thing to be 
looking for the Browns, or any one, he felt sort of 
sorry for her. 

“ Tlier Browns, miss ? ” he said, repeating her query 
vaguely, and the one or two men around him 


12 


AT BROWN'S. 


marveled to see the slouched hat somehow shift from 
his head to his hands that were clasped behind him. 
“ Tlier Browns, miss ? ’Taint tlier easiest thing in tlier 
world to find tlier Browns, there’s so many of ’em ; 
but ef ye’ll tell me which one of ’em ye wants to find 
I’ll help ye ef I ken. Thar’s Jim ; he was round 
hyar a spell ago lookin’ fer a young leddy which was to 
kem in on tlier train. Mebby et’s him ye want, miss ? 
An’ then there’s Al, an’ Joe, an’ Bill — any number of 
’em, as ye see ; but ef ye knows which one ye wants — ” 
“I don’t,” Ada said, desperately. She began to 
feel that even in a little insignificant mountain village 
it might be rather difficult to find the particular per- 
son one wished to find. “ I don’t know her name ; 
my doctor settled about my boarding with her, and all 
I was to do was to come out here and find her ! ” 
She laughed a little now ; it was pathetic, but there 
was a comical side to it too. “ It is some Mrs-. Brown 
who lives out of the village on a hill which faces the 
east, and she takes boarders in summer, though I am 
to be the only one this winter. She has a farm, and 
is real nice to every one ” — Ada was repeating 
vaguely what her kindly old friend had told her at 
different times — “ and she said I might come because 
• — because — ” 


THE ARRIVAL. 


13 


No, she couldn’t quite tell her heart-story here to 
this stranger. She stopped and looked beseechingly 
at him, as though to entreat him to know which Mrs. 
Brown she wanted. It was stifling in that shut-up 
mite of a room, and was so rank with tobacco that she 
caught her breath more than once as if to resist it if 
she could. It was sickening her, and yet she must not 
show it. This man was kind, evidently, if he was 
rough, and she would not wound him. She hated 
tobacco, but she couldn’t tell him so — not then. 

“ It isn’t far from the village ; they told me I could 
walk there whenever I wished ; that is how I know ; 
and they say these Browns have the largest farm near 
here ; and there’s quite a large family of them, but 
they’re nice, all of them.” 

Her listener expectorated profusely around the 
hearth and eyed his companions interrogatively. He 
coughed and brushed his lips across with the back of 
one rough hand. He was puzzled how to answer her, 
and could easily have called upon one of the men in 
the office; but he wished the honor of finding the 
Brown wanted himself. Jim was there that morn- 
ing ; he had just gone on down to the village with 
his buggy ; Jim had been looking for a young lady 
expected on this train: it must be Jim she wanted. 


14 


AT BROWN'S. 


They lived out of the village, considerable of a walk, 
to be sure, but then within walking distance if one 
were a good walker ; and there was a big family — 
there usually were big families around there ! — and his 
mother had the reputation of being a good-hearted 
old soul ; and they took boarders in summer. It w T as 
doubtless Jim, and he must take some means of hail- 
ing him as he returned from the village, so that this 
slip of a girl — she wa3 so small he never thought of 
her as a woman — need not walk and need not hire. 
He straightened up with an air of importance and 
expectorated once more, again rubbing his mouth 
with the back of his hand, and told her his discovery. 

u Et’s most likely Jim you want,” he said. “ He 
was here a spell ago an’ has gone to ther village ; I’ll 
stop him on his way back, so’t ye ken jump in an’ ride 
with him. He kerns as nigh yer descript’n o’ thet 
fam’ly o’ Browns as any, an’ he was here lookin’ fer 
some un. Don’t ye bother nuthin’ ’bout it. I’ll stop 
him on his way up, an’ he’ll take ye ’long of himself 
in his buggy.” 

“ But my trunk ? ” Ada asked, in some relief. “ If 
he has only a buggy he can’t take my trunk too.” 

u Ho,” the man said, condescendingly. He held an 
important place now in the minds of his companions 


THE ARRIVAL. 


15 


for Ills superior knowledge, and lie would not lower 
it one jot. “Ye can’t expect impossibles, and Jim 
hadn’t no idee 6’ takin’ yer trunk along of him in tlier 
buggy when he kem hyar this mornin’. He’ll send 
ther other wagon for that bimeby. Don’t ye fret 
’bout that. Jim knows which side his bread’s but- 
tered. Ye can’t expect impossibles o’ a man.” 

That was a good and effective expression of his, 
and he used it with gusto. “ Impossibles ” had a sort 
of superior tone about it. It rolled from his tongue 
deliciously. He winked his eyes close shut as he said 
it, the better to appreciate its flavor. 

“ How set ye right down here by ther winder,” 
continued the big man, leading the way toward the 
settle, hard and wooden, at the west window, “ an’ I’ll 
go outside and watch fer Jim.” 

Ada hesitated. How could she endure another few 
minutes in that atmosphere ? Then she lifted her face 
bravely. 

“ It is so — warm — in here,” she said ; “ mayn’t I 
walk on the platform until Mr. Brown comes ? I have 
been sitting so long, you know.” 

He smiled broadly. It was novel and pleasant to 
feel one’s self the protector and adviser of such a gentle 
mite of a girl as this. Walk outside ? Of course she 


16 


AT BROWN'S. 


could walk outside ; wasn’t the platform made for 
just that ? She should walk there as long as she 
wanted to, only it was pretty chilly at the corners, 
where the wind got a hold of one. Didn’t she mind 
the cold? Well, then, there was no earthly reason 
why she shouldn’t walk there if she wished. He’d 
show her the best place for that. At the south end 
the sun got a chance at one, when there happened to 
be any sunlight ; but at the north and west sides the 
gusts were sharp and trying, especially for one with 
weak lungs. She hadn’t weak lungs ? She was only 
there to rest because the city was so noisy ? He 
begged her pardon, lie was sure ; he supposed, of 
course, she had weak lungs, as nearly every one who 
went there, especially during the winter, had weak 
lungs ; he was glad she hadn’t. 

Ada smiled and thanked him, and took up her 
strange walk, up and down, up and dow% the narrow 
little south end of the platform, closely holding to her 
satchel and umbrella. It was very desolate and dreary 
here ; but she must be brave-; and this man was kind, 
and she mustn’t let him know how hard she found it 
to answer his many questions as to why she was there 
and how it happened that her folks let such a small 
body come away out there without knowing how to 


THE ARRIVAL. 


17 


find the people she was to be with ; but she kept up 
a brave face and answered his questions when she 
could and evaded them when she couldn’t ; and still 
“ Jim” didn’t come, and the wind was sharp around 
the corners — only she could never endure that close 
little waiting-room, with its tobacco and its horrible 
atmosphere. 

The sun tried to shine, but the snow flurried down 
from the bleak black mountain in the distance, and 
the wind howled as though it would never let go its 
hold of the bitter black day ; and Ada walked bravely 
back and forth, trying to see any beauty in what had 
always been told her were the “ beautiful, grand 
Adirondacks.” The village around the corner was 
dreary in the chilly light ; the mud was black in the 
road, and cut deep by horse-hoofs and the heavy wagon 
ruts ; the hills were black and the pines were blacker ; 
the sky was lowering with the snow-clouds; the sun, 
when it gained any advantage over the clouds, was a 
pallid circle casting a nightmare light over the bare 
bit of world at Ada’s feet. Was there any wonder 
this big man at her side had grown rough and uncouth 
with this barren life ? Would her life narrow to these 
trivial things during her stay? Would she have to 

do only with these rough men and rough women ? 

2 


18 


AT BROWN'S. 


for, doubtless, the women were as rough as the men. 
Was there nothing in this world but waiting for the 
one train to come in and the waiting for the mail ? 
Was it any wonder the men’s lives were narrow if this 
were so ? 

And she had pictured the life so different ! She had 
thought of the life among the mountains growing daily 
broader with its nearness to God’s heart among the hills 
of his holding. She had thought what a grand thing 
it would be to live among the mountains for one whole 
winter and let her life broaden with watching the 
peace of the mountains and the lives of those around 
her. She was fond of human nature, but this phase 
was so different from any which she had ever seen ! 
They had hearts and were good in their way, but it 
must be dreadful to narrow down to such a life with 
God’s mountains lifting their grand heads forever up to 
the bending heavens and the breath of the pines coming 
down like a breath of peace from heaven itself ! She 
had dreamed so many things of the world to which 
she was going, and here she was walking the narrow 
platform with one of the men of the village who was 
so evidently proud of saying “ impossibles,” and who 
used tobacco so profusely as to make her wonder how 
he endured himself. 


THE ARRIVAL. 


19 


For the mountains, she hadn’t seen them yet; this 
hill out here with its bleak bare head lifted to the 
threatening sky could not be one of those marvelous 
mountains of which she had dreamed. She had never 
found things come quite up to her imagination, but 
every one said so positively that the Adirondacks 
were marvels of grandeur, and even her geology told 
her of the wonders that time had worked forming the 
great heads reared so high above the valleys, that she 
could not bring herself to believe this hill — this bleak, 
bare, blackened crest — was one of these mountains that 
were the wonder of men as proofs of the marvelous 
workings of God’s great design for letting the world 
work out its own changes and end ! And where was 
Mount Marcy ? And where were Whiteface and 
Mackintyre ? And they had told her she could see 
these mountains from where she was going. Here 
there was nothing but black, bare hills and a bleaker, 
barer village shut down in desolate mud at their feet. 
There was not even paint on most of the houses she 
could see from the platform. And there beyond the 
river — yes, that was Saranac Kiver — just seen be- 
tween the bare houses was the Queen Anne house, 
the one half home-like house, she thought, where 
lived the principal doctor, the man told her. He had 


20 


AT BROWN'S. 


come there from her city seventeen years before be- 
cause he could not live there, having weak lungs, and 
now he was bringing patients here for weak lungs, hav- 
ing found it so good for himself. It was well to have 
the village built up, the man said ; it made property 
better, and then there was something to see with 
strangers in the place, and they seemed to have a 
good time and nearly lived out-of-doors — more than 
their own women did. The mountain women didn’t 
like the cold of the winters and stayed in-doors ; 
strangers who came up there for their health, because 
they had w T eak lungs, could stand more cold and harder 
snow-storms than any human creatures — he said 
human creatures — that he had ever before seen. And 
not one of them looked very sick after they had been 
there a while. He didn’t know why it was, but they 
got red cheeks and bright eyes and laughed a good 
deal and seemed to take the best out of life and make 
their stay agreeable. Some died. People die every- 
where, and of course they die there, but, taken as a 
whole, they lived and got on better than most folks he 
ever saw. There was a place they called a sanatorium 
there, he said, where only those who had weak lungs 
were allowed. They were as bad as the others ; they 
had a good time, spent their time mostly out-of-doors, 


TEE ARRIVAL. 


21 


and got red cheeks like the rest. He’d never had 
much faith in it, but somehow they did seem to enjoy 
life and have a good time. 

Ada listened without heeding much what he was 
saying; she was straining her eyes down around the 
corner where “ Jim” would be likely to appear; she 
was growing tired of this endless tramp back and forth 
on the platform with this garrulous big man, and 
very anxious to get somewhere where she could take 
off her things and have a good cry if she wanted to. 
And she believed she did want to that very minute as 
much as she ever would her whole life long. It all 
was so new and strange and dreary. The man was 
kind, but he wasn’t one of her friends at home, and 
couldn’t know how she was feeling. She began to 
think it was pretty hard living anyhow, and a feeling 
was growing in her heart — away down, scarcely al- 
lowed the surface yet — that God wasn’t as kind to 
her as she had thought he was in leaving her here 
among these strange people with no one to meet her 
or say they were glad she had come or try to make 
her feel at home. She didn’t credit the man beside 
her with the heart he possessed when he was doing 
his best to cheer her up a little, having an idea that 
she was small and weak and needed comfort somehow. 


22 


AT BROWN'S. 


and wishing that “Jim” would come along and 
relieve him. She had really almost forgotten his ex- 
istence when he suddenly broke off his conversation 
with a wild shout and a sudden rush toward the steps 
of the platform. 

“ Et’s him ! ” he cried, enthusiastically, turning to- 
ward her, as he stood violently gesticulating to a man 
just turning the corner in a buggy. “ Et’s Jim him- 
self, miss, an’ he’ll take ye in along of himself as 
easy as ever could be, an’ no worry to ye. He’s got a 
heart, has Jim, an’ ye’ll be comf’ table as he ken make 
ye goin’ home.” 


ROUGH HEARTINESS. 


23 


CHAPTER II. 

ROUGH HEARTINESS. 

“ The noblest mind the best contentment has.” — Edmund Sjpenser. 

“ You couldn’t hev got hold o’ a better feller than 
him,” Jim Brown said, after he had tucked Ada well 
up in the robes, particular to see that her feet were 
well protected from the gusts that would sweep under 
and around the buggy as the wind whistled down 
from the hills and swirled across the open around the 
station, and they had turned and were driving away, 
the big man calling after them that he would see that 
her trunk was all right and tell Blakesly that “ Jim ” 
would call or send for it that afternoon. “ He’s big 
an’ rough, as most of us are up here ; but he’s got a 
heart, I can tell ye ! He’d ’a’ took care o’ ye till I 
come ef it ’d been midnight ! He used to be one o’ 
our best guides round here, but lie’s sort o’ got too 
old for that, an’ has took to settin’ thar at the sta- 
tion, waitin’ fer tlier mail like the rest of ’em as has 
nothin’ special to do. Most o’ ther men what aint 


24 


AT BROWN'S. 


farmers or blacksmiths or keep store in tlier village is 
guides in summer when the visitors kem up fer sport, 
• an’ they make ’nough by tliet — three dollars a day, 
mostly — to keep ’em durin’ tlier winter ef tliey’s care- 
ful, which most of ’em aint. I know ’em, you see,” 
he added, laughing, tightening the reins over the 
sleek back of the young horse he was driving. “ You’ll 
find us queer up here, may be, but we mean well 
enough. We’ve got our faults an’ our failin’s, like the 
rest of tlier world, but when you know us we aint, 
may be, so bad as you think ! It’s a rough life, an’ we 
grow rough, but we have hearts, most of us.” 

Ada smiled slowly and lifted her dark eyes for a 
brief moment to the shrunken, wrinkled face of the 
young man turned so good-humoredly toward her in 
his effort to entertain her ; but in her heart she was 
wondering if the life of the mountains was such as to 
waste the freshness and brightness of youth as had so 
evidently been the case with her companion. He was 
not old ; she was sure he was not old, but just what 
might be his age she could not guess. Not over thirty, 
she was quite certain ; but when presently he told her, 
giving a description of himself and the family, she 
was struck with the strangeness of it. There was no 
youth in his face ; it was dried and wrinkled and 


ROUGH HEARTINESS. 


25 


hardened as if innumerable winters had written their 
messages upon it, and yet he was only — 

“ Twenty-five, last birthday,” he was saying, wdtli 
his short laugh that was breezy but had little real 
mirth in it after all. “ There’s seven of us, six boys 
an’ one girl ; an’ you can imagine marm has a pretty 
hard time with us fellers to do fer, an’ only one girl 
to help ! But she never minds how much she has to 
do, marm doesn’t,” he added, carelessly; “she says 
we was giv’ her to do fer, an’ she’s willin’ ter do fer 
us. Ella does pretty consid’rable, but she can’t come 
up to marm fer w T ork. I’m twenty-five — would ye 
think et ? — an’ the next to the oldest of us. Bill’s 
the oldest, but he’s lumberin’ now down the lakes, an’ 
Joe, he’s goin’ into the ice-cuttin’ this winter, so that 
leaves only Tom an’ Jack an’ Zack an’ me on tlier 
farm ; but that’s enough of us, to be sure, an’ we’re a 
noisy set in ther evenin’s when we get in tlier settin’- 
room, smokin’ and talkin’ an’ gettin’ ther good out o’ 
life, as a feller has to if he wants to live ” — Ada won- 
dered where the “good” had come into his life — “so 
ye needn’t mind ef ye hears us o’ nights. Marm never 
minds, though she doesn’t like the cider we have to 
have. There aint no good of an evenin’ with smokin’ 
ef a feller can’t have his cider to wash it down, ye 


26 


AT BROWN'S. 


know, an’ El, slie sets mostly with marm in one cor- 
ner where they ken sew an v be quiet by tlieirselves ; 
so they don’t mind us, ye see, an’ we wont want ye to 
mind it either. Ye wont, after the first; there aint 
no harm, ye know ; we only get ther good out o’ life 
an’ have a pleasant evenin’ at home ; an’ ef any o’ 
ther fellers come in from ther village or ther back 
road we makes ’em as comf’table as we ken, an’ keep 
right on. Ye wont mind us no more than nothin’ 
when once ye get used to us,” he added, with consid- 
erable decision, flecking the left flank of the skittish 
animal to show off his mettle as he lifted his hoofs 
and trod on air in the height of his young blood. “ Ye 
wont mind us when once ye’re used to us no more’n 
ye’ll mind Sorrel here after ye’ve drove behind him 
consid’rable. He shows off, but there aint no harm 
in him. He flies off on a tangent, but he’s gentle as 
a kitten really, an’ wouldn’t harm me more’n any tilin’. 
Do ye like bosses, miss ? Ef ye do, an’ are fond o’ 
sleighin’ an’ coastin’ an’ livin’ out-o’-doors, as most of 
them does tliet come up here o’ winters, ye’ll have a 
good time at our house. El an’ marm aint no hands 
ter go out in ther cold, but we boys is off some’r’s 
most o’ ther time, an’ ye’re welcome ter a seat when- 
ever ye like. Et ’ll do ye good an’ cheer ye up. Ye 


ROUGH HEARTINESS. 


27 


wants cheerin’, I should say, judgin’ from yer white 
cheeks ; but marm’s a good one to cheer ye ef ye’re 
hankerin’ fer home, or got a sort o’ heavy load to 
carry. Lots o’ folks goes to marm ; she’s good fer 
comfortin’. They say she’s better’n tlier doctors, 
mostly. But we’ve got good doctors, too. There’s 
ther doctor — or one of ’em — down in tlier village. 
He’s special good fer weak lungs. Ye’ve got ’em, 
haven’t ye — weak lungs, I mean ? Ho ? That’s queer ! 
Hear every one thet comes up here durin’ ther winter 
has weak lungs. But I s’pose ye come jest ter keep 
from havin’ ’em, may be ! ” He laughed again good- 
naturedly and clucked to the horse. 

They were skirting the river now, and the black 
trees were picturesque leaning down over the blacker 
water, with the silver birches relieving the somber 
shades with their gleams of glistening bark wrinkled 
and curled where the knives of the bark-seekers had 
marred their smoothness. But Ada’s companion had 
evidently made up his mind that the girl should not 
be allowed to think for herself, and he kept up a 
steady stream of home-talk and gossip about the vil- 
lage and herself ; and she, knowing the kindly intent, 
could not snub him, but listened and looked at the 
passing scene with eyes that would store the effects 


28 


AT BROWN'S. 


for future use and may be bring in the shadows heav- 
ily, she w r as so downhearted in spite of her bravery. 

“We’ve got good doctors, yes,” he continued, turn- 
ing well up to the side of the road to let a heavy load 
of logs go by, nodding familiarly to the driver, too 
much occupied in entertaining his companion to shout 
his usual greeting to every one he met, knowing nearly 
every one, and speaking regardless of acquaintance 
when he did not know. “ There’s this doctor, he 
come out here fer himself, an’ now lie’s gettin’ any 
number o’ folks out here what has weak lungs, an’ he 
does seem to do powerful by ’em — or tlier air, or 
somethin’. They’ve got a sanatorium here, too, an’ 
it ’d beat all ye’d ever see to get a look at ’em patients, 
as they calls ’emselves. They don’t look no more 
sick ’n I do, an’, as fer that, ye’re a heap sight sicker- 
lookin’ ’n a single one of them. They go in fer a 
good time, too. Ye’ll laugh to see ’em ridin’ along 
tlier road here with rosy cheeks an’ bright eyes, as 
merry an’ chipper a set as ye’d expect ter find some’r’s 
where they don’t have weak lungs. 

“ An’ there’s tlier sunsets ; I s’pose ye’ll like ther 
sunsets,” he added, presently, turning up a steep hill 
so sharply that Ada, not used to mountain travel, 
caught her breath as the colt wheeled round the 


ROUGH HEARTINESS. 


29 


treacherous black rock at the turning. “ Them as 
comes here o’ summers al’ays makes a great time 
about ther sunsets. I s’ pose they are pretty ; they 
light the mountains wonderful, an’ ef ther sunset 
happens to come along of ther time fer moonrise ye 
wont find no better picter now’er’s, miss. It do beat 
all how them colors set on ther mountings, an’ ther 
moon gets up over Whiteface between Mackenzie 
an’ Saddleback as though she knew what she was 
doin’ givin’ ’em sech purty things fer nothin’ ! We’re 
most home now. I s’pose ye aint sorry ? That’s ther 
road to ther sanatorium. It’s set right in ther pines, 
an’ that, they say, makes it so healthy. That’s what 
they say, but I think et’s ther livin’ out-doors so much 
makes ’em so well. I wish our wimmen ’d go out in 
all ther weathers them patients do ! An’ there’s ther 
barns. Ye can’t see ther house jest yet, ther barns 
sliet et off, but et’s right on top of ther hill, an’ faces 
ther east, with Whiteface an’ them mountings lookin’ 
in yer face all day long ef ye don’t turn yer back on 
’em.” 

He laughed immoderately at this witticism, and held 
a tight rein on the sorrel, who was anxious to hasten 
his pace nearing his stall. 

“ There, thet’s the house, Miss. Et’s a homey sort 


so 


AT BROWN'S. 


o’ lookin’ place, don’t ye think ? An’ ef ever ye gets 
hankerin’ fer home, as folks will when they can’t get 
tliar, ye jest come out here where ye can see old 
Whiteface an’ Mackenzie an’ Saddleback, an’ them 
big fellers over there, with the river down below in 
the medders, an’ ye’ll get feelin’ better right off. 
That’s what them says as has been here, an’ I s’pose 
it’s tlier same with all of ’em. Wait a minute, now, 
an’ I’ll help ye out. Sorrel ’ll stand. He knows when 
his master is round, I tell ye ! A hoss al’ays knows 
his master ef it’s a master as has the tight rein on him. 
An’ there’s inarm a-comin’ right out to meet ye. 
’Taint marm’s way to let a feller find his way in ther 
house alone. She’ll make ye welcome an’ get ye 
sutliin’ to eat right off, fer ye must be hungry by 
now ! Et’s consid’rable of a jaunt up from ther city, 
an’ a- waitin’ thar in ther station so long, too. I’m 
sorry fer that, but I thought ye hadn’t come, ye took 
so long gettin’ out ! ” And he laughed and twisted 
the reins around the whip-handle as he leaped to the 
ground, running round to her side of the buggy to lift 
her out as if she had been in reality nothing but a 
child. 

And not for years had she felt so utterly a child as 
she did at that moment with this queer old-young 


ROUGH HEARTINESS. 


31 


man lifting her down, and the tall, thin woman stand- 
ing out in the sharp wind on the piazza, waiting, 
with something so tender and motherly in her thin, 
sunken face, and the bay window alive with green 
leaves and blossoms, and the front door open for her 
to enter. And she choked for a moment, keeping 
back the tears as she walked up the two or three steep 
steps, and felt the long, thin arms reach out and draw 
her in the door where the scent of cooking was strong 
and the fragrance of geranium leaves mingled oddly 
in her mind. It was all very new and strange, and 
she was shivering now with the cold drive and the 
waiting and nervous dread she had had of coming like 
this among strangers. She was shivering, and her 
eyelids were tremulous, though the low voice was 
very brave as she answered the kindly greeting of the 
strange woman with the long, gaunt figure, the long 
arms and hands wrinkled with much work, and the 
strangely quiet voice and motherly face that brought 
the girl’s breath quickly in memory of that motherly 
face and tender voice she might not hear again until 
she should go where her mother had gone — not for 
years and years, it might be ! 

“ There, set right down here by ther stove in this 
rocker, an’ get warmed. It was cold coinin’ up from 


32 


AT BROWN'S. 


the depot, I know,” said the quiet voice that rested 
the girl, listening for some kindly word of welcome. 
“ I’ll just take off your bonnet so’s to rest your head 
a bit, an’ loosen your jacket a little ; but you needn’t 
be in no hurry about taking your things off. You 
need rest first. And by the time your rested dinner ’ll 
be ready. Ther boys is alwa} r s so in haste for their din- 
ner. But they work hard, and I don’t wonder.” She 
said nothing about her own hard work, and Ada felt 
a warming of her heart toward this unselfish woman 
in her shut-in life working all the flesh from lier bones 
for the boys and girl who did not half appreciate the 
mother they had. “We aint in the habit of taking 
boarders in winter, fer then ther boys is so sort of 
shut up, and set in ther settin’-room evenin’s an’ 
smoke an’ have a pleasant time as men likes to have 
after workin’ hard all day ; an’ I hate to have any one 
in my house that I can’t make one of us, and know 
they’re comfortable an’ warm an’ entertained. An’ in 
winter, as I said, ther boys is all in ther settin’-room 
smokin’, an’ may be it aint pleasant for a boarder to be 
sliet up in a room full o’ smoke, an’ I aint willin’ to 
have ’em off in their room as if we didn’t have no 
interest in ’em. So we don’t take boarders winters, 
though there’s lots ’d like to come ef we’d have ’em ; 


ROUGH HEARTINESS. 


33 


they seem to like it here, an’ we like to have ’em in 
summer.” 

“ But they must make a good deal of work for you,” 
Ada said, softly, wishing to say something, scarcely 
knowing what to say to this peculiar woman in her 
gaunt dignity. 

“ Yes ” — there was a pause of scarcely a moment, but 
not a sigh stirred the thin lips used to shutting in 
many a heart-ache — “yes, but with six boys an’ a 
daughter, besides my man an’ me, two or three extry 
ones don’t make much difference, you’d find. An’ 
then they’s company, too. But I don’t often take ’em 
in winter, as I said ; but your doctor wrote so kind 
’bout ye I couldn’t find it in my heart to say no ; so I 
jest says to ’em, says I, 1 Boys, ye’ll treat her good an’ 
decent an’ try to smoke’s little as possible in ther set- 
tin’-room of evenin’s,’ says I ; an’ ther boys, who has 
good hearts in spite o’ every thing, ther boys, they 
says, good-natured as could be, ‘ O, course we’ll make 
it as ’greeable fer her as can be,’ says they. An’ Jim, 
he likes you a’ready. They don’t usual’ like ther 
boarders, do ther boys, but Jim’s took to ye, I know, 
by ther way he helped ye from ther buggy. Ye’re 
so small like, an’ pale, an’ sort o’ look as though ye’d 

like some one to take care o’ ye.” 

3 


34 


AT BROWN'S. 


There was no smile around the straight-drawn 
mouth, but the kindly light deepened in the light gray 
eyes and the lines softened in the rough-drawn face 
above the stiffly folded arms. 

“ Now ye set right here an’ get rested a bit, an’ then 
Ella she’ll come in an’ show ye your room so ’t ye can 
wash up a little if ye want to, an’ then tlier boys ’ll want 
their dinner, an’ I know you’ll want yours. There’s 
nothin’ so comfortin’ after all, I think, as a good hot 
cnp of tea when one is tired or cold. Put your feet 
up there on tlier fender an’ get ’em warm just as ye’d 
do if yfe was home, an’ you’ll feel better, I know.” 

There was no kindly hand on the girl’s tired head, 
no warm kiss of welcome on the quivering red mouth 
as the woman left the room, but as she leaned back 
with her head against the worked tidy on the back of 
the faded rocker, her cold feet up on the high fender, 
she felt somehow that she had been welcomed with 
a kindliness and warm-heartedness that the most pro- 
fuse love-words and tenderest touches of light hands 
could not have equaled, and her warm young heart 
went out to the tall, still woman with her quaint 
courtesy and old-time hospitality, and she wished it 
were in her power to lighten the burdens she felt in- 
stinctively were lying on the set square shoulders that 







































































































































































MOUNT MARCY. 




ROUGH HEARTINESS. 


35 


would not stoop to betray the weight they were bear- 
ing and would bear in secret till the silence of death 
laid its peace over them — over the steady, aching heart 
forever, till the home circle should know what it 
missed when the mother went out from it. 

She closed her eyes as these thoughts blended with 
the sadder thoughts that must come when she remem- 
bered the mother she must miss always now during 
her life, and let these thoughts blend with this strange 
hostess of hers and the sunny geranium-scented sitting- 
room where the “boys” were wont to “set” of an 
evening and fill the room with smoke from their 
pipes. The odor of the dinner was strong also, com- 
ing through the half-open doors, and Ada, being young, 
and not too ill to sicken at the thought of food, felt 
her appetite rise as she leaned back in the comfortable 
rocker toasting her toes and resting after her journey. 
She was positively hungry, and she smiled to herself, 
the smile loosening the tears that had somehow gath- 
ered under the thick black lashes and now dropped 
startlingly upon one hand folded over the other in 
her lap. She brushed them away hurriedly and opened 
the dark eyes, winking energetically to remove any 
suspicion of such weakness, and stooped to take up the 
big yellow cat that sauntered in with its slow welcome 


36 


AT BROWN'S. 


of purr and curious gaze of its wide green eyes. She 
was fond of animals, and the big, stately cat curled him- 
self up contentedly in a rather uncomfortably large 
heap on her lap after one or two gentle strokings of 
his sleek fur, and purred as if a premium were set on 
the welcome he should accord the new-comer. 

“You’re a pretty pussy,” Ada said, encouragingly ; 
and the cat acknowledged this compliment with a quick 
opening and closing of his sharp claws and a rise in 
the key of his song. “You’re a pretty pussy, and it 
is nice of you to be glad I have come, but you’re 
dreadfully large to hold ! ” the girl added, laughing 
softly. 

“ Just put him down if lie’s too large and heavy for 
you,” said a pleasant voice, and Ada turned in some 
curiosity to know from whom this new voice came. 
It was a softer, clearer voice than she had yet heard 
in the village, and there was a subtile sweetness in it 
that wakened hopes of gentle companionship. A tall 
girl had entered and was coming up to the fire, look- 
ing down on her with a half smile in the blue eyes 
under their curled brown lashes, and a curving of the 
straight red mouth that betokened a gentle nature. 
Her fair hair was coiled down on her neck and she 
was fully as tall as her mother, for there was no doubt 


ROUGH HEARTINESS. 37 

in Ada’s mind that this was the “ Ella ” she had been 
waiting for ; but there was a gentle grace of movement 
which the mother did not possess, though the strange, 
gaunt dignity was wanting. The burdens which her 
mother was bearing had not touched her as vet, or had 
touched her but lightly, and the young heart was light 
enough to let the laughter stir the lips where the 
mother’s lips seemed incapable of smiling in spite of 
their indescribable tenderness at times. 

Ada liked her at once ; she laughed in answer to 
the few light words of first acquaintance, and said it 
was really of no consequence if the cat were heavy, 
he was such a proud cat ! But in her heart she knew 
perfectly well she should go to the mother for comfort 
when she desired or needed comfort. The girl was 
tall and graceful and rather pretty, but the mother 
possessed a dignity that surpassed beauty of form or 
coloring. 

“ If you’re rested you may come up to your room 
and take off your things now,” the girl said. She did 
not sit down ; she stood beside the girl’s chair as if 
there were no alternative but for her to go up whether 
she were ready or not. “ Dinner is ready, and my 
brothers are always eager for it. If you haven’t any 
brothers you don’t know.” And she laughed her 


38 


AT BROWN'S. 


pleasant laugh again, showing her white teeth and 
the smoothness of her cheeks. Evidently she had 
learned the grace of manner and gentle speech from 
the boarders they took during the summers. Ada 
was thinking of this as she followed her up-stairs and 
into a wide sunny room facing the east with the mount- 
ains Jim had told her about set in their somber 
autumn dress across the narrow thread of a river in 
the valley meadows. 

“ This is the favorite room, and mother gave it to 
you because she said the mountains would rest you 
whenever you get homesick,” the hostess’s daughter 
said, crossing to the farther window and pulling aside 
the rather scant scrim curtains that veiled the outer 
view. “I suppose Jim told you the names of the 
mountains right opposite here, and that’s Catamount 
lower down the range. People like the mountains 
generally, but they come up in summer, when they are 
at their best, and don’t know what they are with the 
snow upon them and the thermometer sometimes forty- 
four degrees below zero ! Ugh ! I don’t like winter. 
I almost never go out during the cold winter. Mother 
and I have work enough to keep us busy anyway, and 
then there’s no call for going out in the bitter cold 
excepting on Sundays. We always go to church on 


ROUGH HEARTINESS. 


39 


Sundays. Mother would go to church, I think, if she 
froze on the seat of the sleigh. She don’t insist on 
my going always if I don’t feel like it, but she goes, 
and then, of course, either pa has to go or one of the 
boys, to drive. I don’t suppose it hurts ’em any, only 
I don’t see the need of going to church through thick 
and thin when it is so bitter cold ; do you ? ” 

A da shook her head. 

“ Forty-four degrees below zero is pretty cold to go 
anywhere,” she said, laughing softly. “ But your 
mother is so kind I am sure she would not do it if 
she didn’t think it right ; and then the cold really does 
one good ; it puts life into you, you know, if you 
just make up your mind to stand it.” 

“ Well, I’ve never made up my mind to stand that 
yet, to go to church,” Ella said, echoing rather 
grimly the laughter of her new acquaintance. “ But 
mother thinks it right, of course. Mother’s good as 
can be, you know.” 

“Yes,” Ada said, very softly, a slow flush rising to 
her pale cheeks ; “ I know she’s good, Miss Brown. 
I like her very, very much. It seemed as if I had 
come among friends instead of away off among stran- 
gers, as I had so dreaded doing.” 

“ And there’s the dinner-bell ! ” Ella broke in, 


40 


AT BROWN'S. 


swiftly. “ Jest throw your things there on the bed till 
after dinner, Miss Ada — mother said for us to call 
you Miss Ada, as it would make you feel more at 
home — and come right down. You don’t know what 
the boys are when they are kept from their dinner.” 

“ But they’ll not eat me, will they ? ” Ada asked, 
as she followed the tall girl down the steep stairs in 
some haste. 

Ella laughed. 

“ Of course they wont eat you,” she replied ; u but 
they do get pretty mad when things are not on at the 
minute. They’re hungry, you know, working out- 
doors all day in the cold, and want their dinner 
smoking hot and ready when they’re ready. Come 
in. Don’t mind ’em. They’ll look at you, but they 
don’t mean any thing.” 


MBS BBOWN. 


41 


CHAPTEE III. 

MRS. BROWN. 

“And many patient souls ’neatli English roofs have died like 
Romans.” — Mrs. Browning. 

“ They’ll look at you, but they don’t mean any 
thing! ” 

Ada had crossed hotel dining-rooms, where hun- 
dreds of eyes might be leveled at her, and felt never 
a quiver of such nervousness as now she felt on hear- 
ing this by the daughter of the house. Had nothing 
of the sort been said she would have entered the room 
with as little thought of how many eyes should be 
fixed upon her as she had always felt in a crowd ; 
but to be informed that a they would look at her, 
but not mean any thing ” — this was something new, 
and as startling as new. She shivered a little as she 
followed the tall, fair daughter through the open door 
into the square farm-house dining-room beyond, set 
about, it seemed to her, in this new nervous fear, 
with pairs of curious eyes leveled at her above coffee- 
cups and busy knives and forks, Mrs. Brown sitting 


42 


AT BROWN'S. 


quietly at the head of the table pouring the coffee 
with steady hand, unmoved by the clamor of these 
five hungry sons of hers, while Mr. Brown — Ada 
knew he was Mr. Brown, with scant gray hair and 
rough face — served the meat from the table’s foot. 

Ella walked into the room unconcernedly, announc- 
ing as she crossed to her seat at the opposite side of 
the table : 

“ This is Miss Ada, boys. You’re to be good to 
her, remember.” 

And Ada slipped quietly into the chair pulled 
back for her at her hostess’s side with a wave of 
thankfulness that she had received this safe place at 
the strange table. 

“ You take coffee, Miss Ada ?” queried Mrs. Brown, 
with a kindly leaning toward her that caused the girl 
to lift her eyes in swift gratitude. “ And of course 
you like it well sweetened ? All young folks do, you 
know. And cream ? Mr. Brown, you have not yet 
served Miss Ada.” 

“ I know,” said the somber man at the foot of the 
table as he laid dow r n his knife and fork with some 
clamor. “ I was makin’ up ther time till she was 
ready. Time’s sort o’ precious with us farmers, ye 
know,” he added, turning his pale eyes upon the girl 


MRS. BROWN. 


43 


sitting so quietly beside his wife, with her pale 
face and dark eyes drooping before this strange 
family. 

“ Yes,” Ada said ; and she tried to smile as an 
apology for having kept them. She was so sorry she 
had hindered them at all or kept them waiting for 
their dinner. She didn’t know just what to say, but 
she was very sorry. 

“ It’s of no consequence whatever,” Mrs. Brown 
said, quietly, as she passed her guest the steaming cup 
of fragrant coffee she had prepared with special care. 
“ You have not kept them one moment, Miss Ada. 
They simply did not wait for you. Will you take 
roast pork or the fowl. Fowl? Give her a dainty 
piece, Mr. Brown, that wdll tempt her appetite ; she 
hasn’t the appetite you men have, I am quite sure. 
And some of the cream potatoes, Mr. Brown. She 
shall eat if we can tempt her. You must get rosy 
and fat with us, Miss Ada. I should be very un- 
happy to have you go back to your friends as pale 
as you have come. It’s chilly enough to snow, I be- 
lieve,” she added, turning the eyes around the table 
from the pale face beside her. “We haven’t had 
our usual autumn weather this year. Winter ’ll set 
in early ; don’t you think so, Mr. Brown ? ” 


AT BROWN'S. 


Mr. Brown shook his head. He was incapable of 
replying otherwise just then. 

It’s goin’ to rain, not snow,” one of the boys re- 
marked, for the first time taking any part in the 
conversation. “ It wont snow yet, marrn ; ’taint 
time fer snow. That’ll come soon enough without 
you’r hurryin’ it any.” 

“ I wish we’d have summer all the year round,” 
Ella said, discontentedly, shrugging up her shoulders 
as if she were cold. “ Don’t you, Miss Ada ? Win- 
ter’s so horrid cold ! ” 

Ada laughed softly, which called upon her every eye 
at the table ; then she flushed faintly and the heavy 
lashes hid the dark eyes. 

“ Ho,” she said, gently, lifting her eyes now to the 
fair face opposite, “I don’t agree w r ith you, Miss 
Brown. I like winter almost as much as I do sum- 
mer ; it’s so cold it puts new life into you, you know, 
and makes life sort of worth fighting for.” 

She was almost sorry she made so well known her 
pleasure when the sons of the house took up so 
readily the sally against the daughter of the house. 

“There, El,” Tom said, laughing noisily, “ you’re 
left in the lurch now. You can’t coax Miss Ada to 
smother herself up in the house for the next few 


MRS. BROWN. 


45 


months, as you do. I only wish she’d get you out- 
doors a little more ; it wouldn’t hurt you.” 

“ And there’s goin’ to be tip-top skatin’ this winter, 
too,” chimed in Jack, an eager flush on his dark 
face. Jack was the only one of them who looked 
like a boy. Ada liked him at once, and now smiled 
across at him as she asked half wistfully : 

“ Will you take me with you sometimes on the ice? 
I am very fond of skating, and it must be grand up 
here ! ” 

“ Course I’ll take you,” the boy said, energetically, 
the flash deepening in his black eyes at this signal 
favor from the city boarder — “ an sech a pretty girl, 
too ! ” he declared, later, to his less lucky brothers 
when they teased him. “We go out on the upper 
lake ; it’s better skatin’ there, an’ they clean it off like 
glass. Kound ther new hotel is a jolly place, too ; an’ 
at night they have it lit up, an’ ther boarders, they are 
out in their toboggan suits, an’ their toques, an’ all 
their funny styles ; an’ I tell you it’s fun to watch 
’em ! We’ll go some evenin’, jest to let ye see what 
fun it is.” 

“May be Miss Ada has something to say about 
that,” his sister broke in half scornfully as she drained 
her cup of the coffee. “May be even she wouldn’t 


46 


AT BROWN'S. 


care to go out some of the bitter nights we have in 
winter.” 

“ But I’m not afraid of the cold ! ” Ada hastened 
to protest, her eyes almost as bright as those of the 
boy who had so offered himself her cavalier. “ And 
I’d like to see the hotel skaters. We have read 
about them sometimes in the papers, and the gay 
times they have. Will they let you use their tobog- 
gan-slide if you don’t happen to belong there? I’ve 
always wished to go tobogganing, but never had the 
chance on real mountain ice. It would be such fun. 
And they say the hotel itself is very beautiful ; is it ? 
I’d like to go through it some time. It’s a long ride 
over there, though, I suppose. Do you ever have 
bears around here ? I should so like to see a real wild 
bear ! ” 

The men laughed. Jack didn’t laugh, and she 
liked him better. Ella laughed too, and shrugged 
her shoulders, as if she would throw off, then and 
there, all responsibility in regard to this new boarder. 

“ Ef you should see a real live bear you’d be in- 
clined to run rather than stan’ an’ talk to him ! ” Zack 
said, with his big laugh that came so astonishingly 
from his small frame. “ They don’t often come round 
’ceptin’ when they’s pretty hungry, an’ then ye’d better 


MRS. BROWX. 47 

be in ther bouse ’n out to meet ’em. There’s wild- 
cats, sometimes, but not often. One chased a man 
down on the Paul Smith road, las’ winter, an’ scart 
the poor feller pretty nigh to death ; but he got away, 
an’ ther men wot went to hunt ther critter didn’t find 
nothin’. Mebby he only thought he seed one, but 
they say he was mighty scart. Ye don’t want to see 
nothin’ like them, Miss Ada. It’s easy ’nough to 
read ’bout ’em, but when it comes right down to 
meetin’ em ye’d better be some’r’s else.” 

“ Wild-cats is as bad as bears, an’ can run faster 
when they's hungry,” said Joe, joining in the laugh- 
ter. “ Wait till ye’ve lived up here a winter ’fore ye 
wish secli unpleasant neighbors, miss. Farmers is 
better’n them any day.” 

“Of course I don’t want to be eaten up nor fright- 
ened to death,” Ada said ; and now she could talk 
easier with her companions, engaged in something be- 
sides “ looking at her without meaning any thing.” 
“ But I thought it would be rather nice to say I had 
seen a real live bear. You know they say you can 
find bears and wildcats anywhere but in the Adiron- 
dacks ; ” and she laughed with them, her soft voice 
sounding very sweet to these rough men. “ I wanted 
to prove this saying false. It isn’t nice to think our 


48 


AT BROWN'S. 


wilderness is totally without the features that make 
wildernesses attractive, and bears and wild-cats are 
startling enough to wake excitement anywhere.” 

“ They shot a bear down on the Bloomingdale road 
winter before last, some two miles from here ; and 
there was another seen on that road last winter ; but 
they don’t generally come out where people are unless 
they’s pretty powerful hungry. Toward the last o’ 
the winter is tlier best time fer ’em ; but they aint 
special big — they’s only hungry,” Jack explained. 

“ Be sure there’s no bears out when you take Miss 
Ada to skate on the lake,” Ella said, with an air of 
superiority, as she pushed her chair back from the 
table. “ May be the skating’s good, but you’d want 
pretty good skating to get away from a hungry bear 
or wild-cat ! ” And she laughed lightly at her own wit 
and tossed her fair head. 

Jack’ll look out for tlier bears and wild-cats when 
he takes her on tlier lake, you can be sartain,” Jim 
said, good-humoredly, with a nod at his youngest 
brother. “ Jack aint a-goin’ ter risk any girl’s head 
if he knows it, nor his own, neither; are you, Jack ? ” 

“ No,” Jack said, stoutly, his eyes very bright in 
spite of the flush on his cheeks at their raillery. 
“Miss Ada an’ me’s able to take care o’ ourselves 


MRS. BROWN. 


49 


when we go skatin’, an’ you needn’t fret ’bout our 
gettin’ eat by wild-cats. There aint no wild-cats, any- 
how, ’ceptin’ a mighty few, an’ they keep dark mostly. 
You needn’t try to scare her ; she aint one to be scart 
easy.” 

‘‘Good for Jack!” cried Jim, with a sound slap 
on his brother’s shoulders as he passed him, leaving 
the table. “ He’s got grit, Jack has, an’ ye can trust 
him, Miss Ada.” 

“ Of course I shall trust him,” Ada said, with such 
quiet conviction that Jack’s heart gave a great thump, 
unheeding the laughter in the room. “ I wouldn’t 
go with any one I couldn’t trust if I knew it, Jack.” 

And Jack knew she meant it, and made up his 
mind to deserve her trust so far as was iirliis power, 
for Jack wasn’t yet sure of his power to make of 
himself what he would, and all his brothers’ teasing 
could not shake the secret pleasure he took in think- 
ing of the chord of sympathy between himself and 
this pretty new boarder of his mother’s. 

“ I’ll see ’t your trunk comes up this afternoon, 
miss,” Jim said, as he left the room, turning toward 
Ada for a moment with this message : “ One of the 
boys ’ll be goin’ down, an’ can fetch it easy ’nough. 

Jenkins ’d get a lit ef I’d kept you waitin’ and he 
4 


50 


AT BROWN'S, 


laughed heartily, remembering the strange champion 
the girl had found at the station on her arrival. 

“ Thank you,” Ada said, and she nodded easily to 
the old-young man, lifting her dark eyes, brightly 
gleaming with answering laughter. She was recov- 
ering her self-possession ; it was not often she was so 
shy and awkward ; she had seen enough of the world 
to take away shyness and give in its place a quiet dig- 
nity that seemed odd in her to strangers, she looked 
so small and childish. “It is good of you, Mr. 
Brown ; though I am certain he would take good care 
of it till you should go. He was very nice to me.” 

“ And now you shall just go up to your room and 
lay down for a while, till you are rested from your 
journey,” Mrs. Brown said, as she and her daughter 
rose with their guest when the men had gone, even 
to Jack. “ It isn’t good for you to get too tired the 
first day you are with us, and the rest will do you 
good. Jest lay right down on the outside of the bed 
if you don’t want to undress, and I’ll come up with 
you and see that you are nicely covered from the cold. 
It’s chilly in them upper rooms this weather, an’ we 
haven’t made no fires there yet.” 

“You’re very good to me,” Ada said, softly, and 
she touched the long arm nearest her with a tender 


MRS. BROWN. 


51 


little pat as they went up the narrow stairs. It was a 
timid little touch, and there was not a quiver on the 
stern face set so squarely on the broad shoulders, but 
the girl would never know of the tumult she waked 
within by that tender touch of hers. “ It is so nice 
to have come to you, and not among people who would 
not have cared ! ” And there was a little tremor in 
the low voice that told of the ache deep down for the 
longing to have the old mother-love she could never 
have now. 

Mrs. Brown knew all about it. Ada’s doctor and 
her mother’s minister had written this woman about 
the blow to her young heart and life, and she knew 
perfectly well how she was longing for the love of 
her mother, for the presence that had been over her 
since first life awakened for her. She knew, and her 
heart was tender; but she was not given to tender # 
speech ; her heart was too deeply scarred for her to 
break by words the stern seal she had set over her 
lips and life. This light touch on her arm, where 
such tender touches were scarce, sent a swift throb of 
pain through her heart ; but the set lips only shut 
closer over the cry that would not always be stilled in 
spite of the stern decree set over it. Her voice was 
steady and unmoved, to all appearances, however, as 


52 


AT BROWN'S. 


she said quietly, as though merely uttering an every- 
day fact: 

“ Yes, it is better to go where one can feel a little 
at home than to one of the big hotels, where they 
care very little whether one lives or dies, save for the 
extra trouble it may make. I think you will like it 
here when you get used to us. The boys mean well, 
and my daughter is good-hearted. There’s a piano 
down in the parlor, too, if you care to play at any 
time ; we don’t mind music, and you may play on it 
whenever you want to. May be it’ll help you to feel 
more at home. Ella has very little time to play, but 
she likes it well enough. The parlor’s cold now, but 
we’ll have fire in it before long, an’ you can use the 
piano any time you like.” 

“ I’m fond of music,” Ada said, more because she felt 
she should say something than because she had this spe- 
cially to say. “ I suppose you enjoy very much having 
your daughter play for you during the long winter 
evenings ? Music helps the time to go so pleasantly, 
and Sunday evenings are never the same without it.” 

A faint fire came into the faded eyes, but the long 
arms were folded stiffly and resolutely across the broad 
chest, and there was no new tone of the voice in 
replying: 


MRS. BROWN. 


53 


“ I like hymns on the piano Sundays, too ; but 
Ella mostly has company or is too tired from the work 
during the week to play much then. She works hard, 
you know, Ella does, and I don’t blame her for want- 
ing to rest when she can. There’s nothing like music 
to set off hymns, though they are grand, anyhow, and 
may be as well without it. I like jest to read ’em over.” 

She didn’t question into the girl’s heart, or her likes 
and dislikes regarding religion. Ada was shy as yet 
to speak of her inner thoughts or have too harshly 
touched the tender memories her mother had left by 
her sweet life full of trust, and bright always with 
the hope that never dies. 

u It seems to me Sunday evenings would be grand 
here in your home with the old hymns played softly 
and the sunset on the mountains out there,” Ada said, 
a flush rising to her cheeks at her own daring in so 
laying bare her heart-thoughts ; but there was some- 
thing so grand in the gaunt dignity of the woman 
before her, whose heart and life were scarred with 
sorrow, she knew instinctively, that she scarcely knew 
what she was saying or why she should have spoken 
as she could never have spoken to another. “ I am 
sure the sunsets are glorious, and the mountains 
always seem to me to be the gates that part with the 


54 


AT BROWN'S. 


touch of rose when the day dies, and lets into the 
lower world a gleam of the world beyond, with its 
mystery and beauty hidden yet half revealed by the 
thoughts that come with the lights. And there’s 
‘ Old Hundred’ and ‘Sun of my Soul’ and ‘Even- 
tide,’ that bring the soul somehow in tune with the 
mood of the day — ” 

She stopped. How could she say such things as 
these to a woman whom she had not known for longer 
than two hours at the most ? How could she lay 
bare her heart-thoughts to an utter stranger when that 
stranger kept such a tight hold of her own heart and 
words ? How could she tell this woman what even 
her mother’s own minister did not know from her 
telling, and had merely found out from studying her 
character ? Was it the strange dignity of a great sor- 
row, or the nobility of a soul suffering as bravely as 
ever the martyrs of old suffered in silence, with only 
their inner cry to God above, “ Father, forgive them 
they know not what they do ? ” 

She turned with a half-deprecating smile from her 
hostess and, crossing to the window, pulled well aside 
the curtains and sat down, her chin falling to her 
hand, her eyes following the curves of the dark range 
of mountains across the river. 


MRS. BROWN. 


55 


“Come and sit down and rest a minute, Mrs. 
Brown,” slie said, coaxingly, putting a chair oppo- 
site her own and withdrawing her gaze from the outer 
world to let it rest upon the stern face above her. 
“Your daughter would like you to rest a minute, I 
am sure, and you will do me lots of good. I believe 
I am homesick ! ” she added, brokenly, but scattering 
any tears that might be near with a sunny smile, the 
sunniest that had touched her lips since her mother 
died. “ I believe I am homesick and not brave one 
bit, and I want you to give me some of your brave 
spirit.” 

The tall woman shook her head slowly, but sat down, 
not unfolding the thin arms clasped across her waist. 
She looked as though smiling were a thing impossi- 
ble ever to her lips, and yet when life was as young 
for her as for the girl coaxing her so gently to sit 
beside her, and adding persuasion of sunny smile to 
her words — when life was as young for her as for 
this girl, her lips had known smiling as bright as hers, 
her heart had not quivered with too many cuts to 
make her words happy and her life worth the singing. 

She sat down and pulled her sleeve more smoothly 
over one arm with the bony fingers of the other hand 
as she did so. 


56 


AT BROWN'S. 


“ I’d like to help you if I could,” she said, slowly, 
“ but it seems to me that them mountains can do more 
for you in that than me. I’ve lived opposite ’em for 
forty years, an’ they’ve give me more comfort with 
their big silence than any human lips could give, 
though folks means well an’ would help one ef they 
knew what to say or do ; but mostly they don’t, an’ 
hurt you when they think they’s helpin’. ‘ As the hart 
panteth after the water-brooks ’ — I’ve said that so many 
times ! It does seem as though there wa’n’t a soul in 
all the world that one longs for at times as they do 
for the Lord ! Only the Lord can carry our burdens 
an’ make ’em light, even if he says we must carry ’em 
yet a little while ourselves. An’ I think there isn’t 
one of us livin’ beings but has longed sometimes m orb 
fer ther Lord when we’s troubled than ever we couldi 
long for one single friend, even if he has stacks of 
friends ! It’s ther Lord we go for when we want real, 
downright help, an’ its only ther Lord can help us. 
That’s why he gives us troubles sometimes, I think. If 
things went on all right we’d may be think mighty 
little about him. 4 Whom the Lord loveth ’ — that runs 
in my mind, too, powerful at times. It helps ther 
heft o’ troubles, you know.” 

Yes, Ada knew. She had had her times of crying for 


MRS. BROWN. 


57 


the Lord’s help as well as this woman, and she knew. 
She smiled with her eyes and lips as though she had 
answered the woman, and set her chin deeper in the 
hollow of her hand, her elbow resting on the narrow 
window-ledge, waiting for more words that seemed 
like words of prophecy coming from this tall, thin 
woman sitting straight in the hard-backed chair op- 
posite, with the dignity of deep suffering bravely 
borne on her toil-worn face. 

“ An’ ther quiet of them mountings out there seem 
sometimes as if the Lord had set his seal of silence 
on them, an’ there they are to stay watchin’ an’ 
bearin’ an’ helpin’ with their stillness and their stead- 
fastness — always there whether ther mist creeps up 
from the river an’ hides ’em from us or not — an’ the 
sort o’ look as though at some time ther Lord had 
specially blessed ’em fer our helpin’. I’ve stood 
lookin’ at them sometimes when I thought there was 
nothin’ on earth or in heaven — bein’ specially down- 
sperited — an’ there they stand jest as still an’ grand 
an’ stately as if there wa’n’t one speck o’ sufferin’ 
or sorrow in all ther world. Some o’ my boarders 
has been pretty bad with the lungs,” she added, as 
though she would not have her guest think for one 
moment she was telling any heart-trouble she should 


58 


AT BROWN'S. 


hide witli her silent dignity — “ some of ’em so young 
an’ dingin’ so to life it did seem cruel to let ’em go ; 
hut what could you do ? Only the Lord could save 
’em, an’ he seemed to know it wasn’t right fer ’em to 
stay. But one young girl in particular was so pretty 
an’ so young, an’ it did seem as if the world held more 
for her in the way of love and friends and good 
things than for most ; but she had to leave ’em an’ 
go. She was beautiful, though, inside as well as out. 
Whenever I went to see her or carry her something 
nice 1 knew she would like to eat she’d be layin’ 
there on tlier bed as white an’ sweet, an’ smiled so 
like an angel for all the world, I jest said the Lord 
had set his seal on her lips by sufferin’, an’ I couldn’t 
find it in my heart to ask for her to stay, for I knew 
how much the world holds of sufferin’ by an’ by when 
one aint so young an’ ready to bear troubles ; an’ I jest 
said it was the Lord’s doings an’ wonderful in my eyes. 

“ But they don’t all die. O, no. Some of ’em gets 
well an’ their lungs gets strong an’ they go back to their 
friends an’ live may be as long as the threescore years 
the Bible says we are to live. But it’s these things 
that make up the sorrow of the world an’ fill one’s 
heart with sadness, even knowin’ ther love o’ ther 
Lord in all his doings ! ” 


MRS. BROWN. 


59 


“Yes,” said Ada, steadily, with her eyes on the 
distant slopes ; but she knew deep down in her heart 
that it was not the pain and sorrow of other lives that 
had left this heroic woman what she was, sitting stiff 
and straight in the straight-backed chair at the other 
side of the window facing the east where the mount- 
ains of God lifted their heads steadfastly with heal- 
ing in their silence. 


60 


AT BROWN'S. 


CHAPTEK IV. 

THE HILLS OF GOD. 

“ And then at moments, suddenly, 

We look up to the great wide sky, 

Inquiring wherefore we were born . . . 

For earnest, or for jest?” — Mrs. Browning. 

“ Yes, ye can climb ther mounting ef ye wants to,” 
Mr. Brown said, at breakfast, a few days later, in an- 
swer to a question from Ada. “ ’Taint much of a 
mounting anyhow, this one, an’ some folks don’t pre- 
tend to call it nothin’ but a hill; but that’s neither 
here nor thar ; ef ye wants to go up ye’re welcome, 
I’m sure. Can’t lose yer way very easy ef ye keep 
to ther path.” 

“ Ye’ll find the best path in the lower lot, after 
climbing the fence below ther barns,” Jim added, 
knowing perhaps better than his father did how easy 
it was to lose one’s way among the woods of the mount- 
ain. “ There’s a path runs from thar through ther 
sngar-camp and so round up to the top. Thar’s quite 
some of a view, they say, from ther top, though I aint 


THE HILLS OF GOD. 


61 


been tliar myself never ; tlier greatest height I’ve got 
to is np in ther maples when we’re sugarin’ off an’ 
ther sap hows from ther trees some half mile up ther 
woods ; but I aint never had time to stop to look at 
no scenery then.” And the young man laughed at the 
recollection of how utterly impossible it was for any 
one to stop for scenery when the sap was on and the 
busiest season, almost, of the year had come. 

“ I hope you’ll let me see the sugar-camp,” Ada 
said ; “ I’ve never been in a sugar-camp in my life, 
and it must be nice to see the sap run and the lovely 
cakes of sugar fresh from the pans.” 

“ Mebby et’s fun ter see ther sap an’ ther sugar,” 
joined in Zack, “ but et aint no fun ter liev ter be up 
nights an’ all times watchin’ an’ tendin’ an’ keepin’ 
ther fire goin’ like all possessed ; et’s pretty good 
solid work, I can tell ye ! ” And the young fellow 
shrugged his shoulders ruefully. 

“ I suppose I do think it nice because I know noth- 
ing about the work,” Ada said, laughing. “ Good 
matter-of-fact knowledge interferes so with imagina- 
tion. Do you have to be up nights and keep a fire 
all the time ? May I see you sometime if I stay all 
winter \ I should so like to be at a sugaring ! ” 

“ May be you’ll see a bear there, too ! ” laughed Ella. 


62 


AT BROWN'S. 


“ ’Taint likely ! ” and Jack flashed an indignant 
look from his black eyes over at his sister. “We 
make it too hot fer ’em ; don’t we, Jim ? ” 

“ Rather ; ” and Jim laughed dryly. “Ye needn’t 
be afraid o’ no bears when we’re in camp, Miss Ada ; 
they’re more afraid o’ us ’n we are o’ them ! ” 

“ But to get up the mounting,” and Tom took up 
the first subject with slow deliberation, “ ye wants 
ter be a leetle careful, miss, fer ther path aint tlier 
clearest when ye don’t know it ; an’ thar’s branches 
off to t’other side o’ ther hill where ther trees is so 
thick ye can’t fer ther life o’ ye tell whether ye’re 
goin’ right or wrong ! ” 

“ I wish it was so one of the boys could go with 
you,” Mrs. Brown said. “ Rot that there is really 
any danger, Miss Ada, but one feels safer with a man 
along, sometimes.” 

“ But I scarcely think I will get lost or come to any 
harm,” Ada said. “ I shall follow my instructions so 
faithfully ! ” 

“ Of course,” Mrs. Brown replied, no answering 
touch of laughter on her face or lips. “ But we feel 
sort of responsible for you, and I’d like to be sure 
you’ll get up and back all right.” 

“ You just mustn’t worry about me,” replied the 


THE HILLS OF GOD. 


63 


girl, softly, with one of her swift glances for the quiet 
woman sitting beside her, undisturbed by the noise 
of the others. “ Y ou’ll see me coming back as safe 
and sound as I am at this minute. As Jack said, the 
other day, I’m not so very easily frightened, and that 
makes some difference, you know. You’ll see me 
coming in safely like the bad penny that always turns 
up. You’ll never be able to lose me, I’m afraid.” 

“We wouldn’t wish to,” answered the set voice. 
“ I hope you will never come to harm while you are 
with us — harm of any sort.” 

“ Indeed I’ll not ! ” And the girl’s sweet, low 
laugli was good to hear answering the woman’s deep, 
slow voice. “You’ll see me at dinner with an appe- 
tite that will astonish you. The mountains always 
give me a ravenous appetite.” 

“I would be glad of any thing that would give 
you a better appetite and relish for food than you 
have had so far,” Mrs. Brown said, calmly ; “ but you 
do not want to run into any danger.” 

“ No,” answered Ada, soberly, knowing how much 
of heart was in the few words uttered by this quiet 
woman. 

And she was thinking of her as she picked her way 
lightly over the cold, sodden leaves of the meadow 


64 


AT BROWN'S. 


below the barns, searching for the path — thinking of 
her with kindlier interest than she had felt in an y 
thing since the death of her mother had seemed to 
shut out all the sunlight of life. She came to the 
low stone wall and easily climbed it, sitting perched 
like a bird, swaying a little on the top, trying to de- 
cide whether the path was that line of soggy leaves 
in by the fence or the trail over the logs and through 
drooping yellow fern further out in the meadow. 
But as they lay somewhat near together, and the path 
by the wall looked driest, she slipped down from her 
perch, rattling one or two of the smaller stones down 
after her, and struck out boldly in search of the sugar- 
camp, where the path was too distinct for losing. 
The leaves were very damp and cold, for there had 
been a heavy rain two days before, and the sunlight 
could not reach in here well enough to dry the moist- 
ure at once. But Ada wore a short, thick dress, and 
her overshoes, though thin, were high and would pro- 
tect her feet from ordinary dampness ; so she walked 
lightly up the uncertain path that now and then 
seemed to have lost itself in the wall or run so far out 
that there could be no hope of finding it, but was 
stumbled upon almost without knowing a moment 
later. It was quiet and still with the silence of the 


THE HILLS OF GOD. 


65 


woods and meadows around and behind her. She 
liked silence ; and the great woods, with the tree- 
tops so high above her head that she had to lift her 
face well up to catch glimpses of them, seemed like 
friends to her. She smiled at them and nodded, and 
then felt ashamed of herself for being so childish, but 
brushed the drooping, heavy ferns from under her 
feet that she should not tread out their brave lives 
setting the mosses with green at that late autumn 
day. It was marvelous, the silence of those great 
trees with only the sighing of the winds now and 
then along their tops, bending them like reeds, grace- 
ful as willows under the blue heavens, with the sun- 
light flecking them here and there with gleams of 
gold. It was marvelous, the silence, and yet the low 
murmurs and rustling and crackle of falling twigs 
rattling against the trunks in their downward flight, 
the muffled whirr along the mosses and chip and chat- 
ter as a tiny red squirrel flashed past almost under her 
feet. It was charming, the daring of these squirrels, 
and Ada laughed free-heartedly, reaching out her 
hands with low chirping, as a child would call in per- 
fect faith, her dark eyes alight with new life, her soul 
somehow free in the wide loneliness. 

She kept the path easily ; it grew wider and clearer 
5 ' 


66 


AT BROWN'S. 


as slie went on. She had not come to the sugar-camp, 
hut she supposed it must be further than she had 
thought ; and then the woods grew more dense, and 
she could not see so far through the trees and under- 
brush as she could at first, and so might stumble upon 
the camp without previously having seen it. She felt 
not the least fear. There was the path, and here was 
she ; and she laughed, and called to the daring squir- 
rels, and stooped now and then for the slender fern 
and crinkled bark from some fallen tree, and her belt 
was full of strange little bits from her walk, and her 
heart was growing full of peace, alone as she was 
with the silence that was of God. 

But by and by she knew she was away from the 
path, somehow ; just how she could not tell, nor 
how she had lost it ; but the camp had not yet ap- 
peared, and, according to the instructions she had re- 
ceived, she should have come upon it before that 
time. The path was gone; there were places well 
trodden, as if they led to somewhere away from the 
wilderness, but they showed only bit by bit, and 
seemed to draw her around the mountain instead of 
up toward the peak. She was not frightened ; there 
was something almost holy to her being alone in the 
silence, with -the great trees leaning and sobbing so 


THE HILLS OF GOD. 


67 


far above her, witli the great moss-covered rocks loom- 
ing beside her and before and behind, and the cliat- 
tery squirrels skimming now and then across her path, 
snapping their bright eyes in a sort of good-fellow- 
ship upon her so strange intrusion in their solitude. 
She felt no fear ; she knew instinctively that she was 
going around instead of up the mountain ; but the 
men had said that after all it was not much of a 
mountain, and she could scarcely be really lost ; but 
she would try climbing straight up toward the top, 
which she could just see looming faraway between 
the trees and underbrush ; she would not search for 
any path ; she must eventually come to the top if she 
climbed steadily from where she was. 

She smiled to herself as she thought how they 
would laugh at her at the house when she should tell 
them that she had been lost so easily. They would 
not be uneasy, because she would be in time for din- 
ner, only they would laugh at her for her confidence 
when in reality she had wandered from the path 
almost from the very first. She stood for a moment 
drawing in deep breaths of the damp, moss-scented 
air of the woods, mingled with the odor of pines and 
spruce swaying and swinging above her, and then she 
began her climb. It was not so easy as she thought 


68 


AT BROWN'S. 


it ; the logs that lay in her way were often slippery 
and treacherous, or crumbled from under her feet, 
leaving her in a mire of mold and moss and spiders 
when she attempted to walk upon them instead of 
trusting to the sodden leaves ; the leaves themselves 
were slippery and slimy with dampness, and tripped 
her many a time ; the bushes grew more and more 
tangled, and struck her sharply in the face as she at- 
tempted to pass under or between them; the very 
ground itself seemed to crumble and slide from under 
her light feet. 

It was very hard, very trying, but she kept up a 
light heart, and would not own to being worsted in 
this first attempt of hers to make the acquaintance of 
the mountains and woods among which she was to 
spend the winter, and which she would have as friends 
during her stay, with memories to carry away with 
her when she returned to her home and her friends 
of the city, whose only mountains were the towering 
buildings, and whose woods were scattered trees of 
the parks, and where the great silence of God was 
shut in one’s heart, crowded out of the streets by the 
din and confusion of traffic as the temple of old was 
desecrated by the money-changers. 

She grew breathless, and her cheeks grew hot with 


THE HILLS OF GOD . 


69 


the exertion ; for it might look simple, climbing the 
mountain, but struggling up was a different thing from 
standing below and making up one’s mind to try it. 
It was steep ; there were the logs and rocks and bushes 
to hinder one ; there was the uncertainty of what 
would be the outcome of the rather wild attempt, and 
altogether Ada was not having the easiest time in the 
world, scrambling, slipping, struggling up the steep 
side of the insignificant mountain. But she reached 
the top at last. She came upon it suddenly, when it 
seemed to her she could not get up another step, when 
it seemed as if she could not manage another breath 
in this wild climb. She suddenly lifted her eyes, 
holding with both hands to a swaying sapling, search- 
ing for any sign of what might be the path ; and there 
she was within half a dozen feet of the top, with no 
more tangled bushes, no more tall trees keeping out 
the sunlight, no more rocks looming like lions in 
her path. The peak* was quite destitute of trees; 
nothing but broken blocks of what might have at 
one time been huge bowlders lay around her ; scant, 
scrubby bushes swung in the wind that lifted its voice 
from the lowland lakes beyond. 

She walked easily the few remaining steps that shut 
off the full view of the land beyond, and then sat 


70 


AT BROWN'S. 


down on one of tlie low rocks, broken and washed 
white by the storms that had passed over them during 
the centuries, perhaps, since they had been there. She 
drew a long breath and folded her hands around her 
knees, sitting w r ith her flushed face alight with pleas- 
ure. She thought it was almost as good as being 
Moses catching his glimpse of the promised land 
as she looked so far, so very far below and beyond 
and across the lakes and the level stretches to the 
mountains in the distance. 

There was Colby Pond to the right; she was sure 
of that because they had told her of it ; but the twin 
ponds farther off she did not know, but she would 
remember and ask, she thought. She must know 
these bits of water and the lifted lands stricken with 
violence of volcano and avalanche in the years and 
years gone by. Down the side of the mountain were 
scrubby pines and bushes, even more tangled and 
treacherous than those she had struggled with on the 
other side in her ascent. She laughed to think what 
a figure she must have been scrambling among the 
slimy leaves over slippery logs with her hot cheeks 
and tumbled hair, and wondered what her friends at 
home would say, wondered what her mother would 
say, if she knew, and then caught her breath, remem- 


THE HILLS OF GOD. 


71 


bering that her mother did know if those could know 
who have left us for the beautiful land, for the prom- 
ised land over into which it had seemed to her she was 
looking. 

A swift sense of terror possessed her ; she shivered 
and glanced around over her shoulder and started to 
her feet, trembling, seeing gruesome shadows behind 
the rocks, catching glimpses of horrors behind the 
stumps, hearing fearful sounds, stealthy and tenable 
in the moaning of the trees and the creaking and rub- 
bing of the branches ! She was cold as death ; she 
could not move for one moment. She seemed rooted 
to the spot with terror ; then, with a fleeting back- 
ward glance, she turned and fled down the path, nar- 
row and winding, up which she should have come. 
She felt as if a thousand terrible things were after 
her, as though she should never escape from the hor- 
rors that possessed her. Then, as suddenly as she 
liad started, terror-stricken, she paused. Every trace 
of fear was gone ; the great silence was around her ; 
the riot of the absent world, with its strivings, was far 
in the distance ; and this was peace. She lifted her 
face up toward the whispering trees, and held with 
steady hand to a stray branch of bush beside her; 
there was a trembling smile on her face and a 


72 


AT BROWN'S. 


glimmer as of tears in her dark eyes. Afraid ? She ? 
with God there, and her mother’s tender spirit? 
What had she to fear? Was there any thing in 
God’s great world that could harm her, alone though 
she was, when he was over all the world, and space 
could not hold him, and the uttermost parts of the 
universe could not utter the height and depth and 
power of his great love and tenderness ? She laughed 
softly, and the sound w T as soft and low among those 
tall monarchs of the forest, among the wide, free hills 
of God. Her voice was like the low breath of a wind 
that is gone ere it runs through the underbrush along 
some babbling water. It was a sound so light and 
soft and small that it was as nothing in the midst of 
the solitude ; and she laughed again hearing it, and 
thought what a child she was to fear any harm in that 
wide silence. 

Then she let go the frail branch she held, and 
swung herself down along the path with the swinging 
ferns lifting their heads bravely at the feet of the 
mighty trees, and wondered how she could have 
missed this clear path marked so distinctly through 
the mosses and leaves, with the stones worn smooth 
by many feet and the waters that had made a channel 
of the summer foot-prints ! 


THE HILLS OF GOD. 


73 


She stooped now and then to gather a spray of fern 
finer and more frail than the others, or some delicate 
leaf of maple that held the flame of forest fires in its 
tracery ; and her hands and belt were full of the 
dainty beauties as she passed lower down to the fence 
that shut off the sugar-camp which she had found 
so difficult to discover on her upward way. She was 
singing a low snatch of song, the murmur of the trees 
and the stir among the leaves of tiny feet waking a 
feeling of peace in her heart, and her lips would 
somehow part over the sweet old words of some 
chance hymn, drifting on the soft air with the breath 
of the pines and damp mold and fragrant ferns, green 
in spite of the fast-coming winter. Every trace of 
fear had left her, and her heart was light with new 
courage and new bravery, and her face was tender 
with the touch of the strange broad trust that had 
come to 'her there on the silent liill-top above the 
world ; yet her thoughts would wander from the 
scenes around her to the silent woman, her hostess, 
with her face lined and marked deep with sorrow and 
the fire of trial, that was noble with its soul in spite 
of its roughness ; the face that was the face of a 
mother and a woman true as truth to the honor she 
must hold toward her husband and sons, though the 


74 


AT BROWN'S. 


suffering she bore cut her heart deeply, seamed her 
face as though graven there ; a truth that sealed the 
straight lips into silence and held the stiffly folded 
arms across the heart that found peace only in God’s 
peace and the steadfastness of his hills set before her 
windows like tables of stone with commandments cut 
thereon for her eyes only. 

The girl could not help watching the woman ; she 
was never obtrusive in her watchfulness, but she fol- 
lowed her with her thoughts and gave her gentle 
words w T hen she knew, guessing shrewdly, that gentle 
words were few in the busy, bustling household! 
She wanted down in her girlish heart, warm with life 
and love, to help the suffering woman, but she had 
not yet found the way, or thought she had not, 
though she never knew of the great heart-throbs 
under the stern silence, when her soft, light hand 
touched, as it did now and then in her pity, the rigid 
hand or arm of the tall, straight, stern woman trying 
to make her feel “ at home ” among her family of 
“ boys,” and neglecting nothing that might add to 
her comfort even in her crowded life of work. 

She was singing softly, 

“ There are gains for all our losses, 

There is balm for all our pain,” 


THE HILLS OF GOD. 


75 


scarcely knowing herself of what she was singing, 
thinking so deeply she was of the noble woman in 
her stolid life, crowded with work for her family, 
crowded with thoughts for others, till self was set so 
far aside she had shut herself from sympathy even 
from herself, so unselfish that her sorrows were as 
nothing to the pain of others. 

She was thinking and singing softly, resting as she 
walked down slowly after her scramble up, stooping 
for bits of green or soft-tinted flame, her hands so full 
she laughed like a child to think how little it took to 
bring peace here when the city had held nothing that 
could ever bring peace to her sore heart. The w r ords 
of her singing were sad, and she was singing them by 
snatches softly and low with a tender touch of her 
own, born of her thoughts of the house-mother in the 
home yonder, when she came upon two people mount- 
ing the hill more slowly even than she was descend- 
ing. They were young people, and she might have 
passed them without more than a glance of half- 
curiosity for any one treading her lost path had there 
not been something in the face of the girl that caught 
her eyes and her thoughts. It was a pale face set off 
by hair that w T as nearly black, braided and tied behind 
low down the neck with a broad band of crimson rib- 


AT BROWN'S. 


bon ; the lips were warm scarlet, and seemed touched 
with tire against the pallor of the oval face with its 
lines of Sweetness, and the dark brown eyes that held 
a smoldering tire under the drooping lids. The girl 
was tall and slender, and there was something in the 
face more of a child than woman, while her voice, 
though sweet, held a touch of the querulousness that 
belongs sometimes to childhood, as she answered her 
companion, lifting her face frankly to his with no 
girlish coquetry, no trace of self-consciousness, no 
touch of pride in her pale sweetness. There was 
something both of the child and the woman about 
her, and Ada stopped without pausing to think of 
the unconventionality of her action. She paused as 
frankly as the girl could have done, and the dark 
eyes sought the dark eyes opposite that held no touch 
of the peace in her own, as she asked softly, with a 
breath of laughter on her lips, 

“ Am I really on the right path for Brown’s ? 
I started out to climb the mountain, and, though 
they warned me of the possible danger, I was so 
certain of myself that I lost my path almost at 
once.” 

The girl did not wait for her companion to reply 
for her. There was something in the face of her 


I 

THE HILLS OF GOD. 


77 


questioner that left no room for hesitation in replying 
as frankly as she had been asked : 

“ Yes, this is the path up the mountain, and if you 
climb into the path through the sugar-camp you 
cannot fail to reach the Brown’s.” 

“ Thank you,” Ada said, softly, still with the 
slow smile for the girl alone. “ I am sorry to have 
troubled you, but I do not wish to lose my way 
going back. They will laugh at me, anyway, and I 
wish to give them as little reason to tease me as pos- 
sible.” 

The girl’s eyes flashed indignantly. There was a 
warm heart under the quietness of her manner, Ada 
thought, watching her. There was a little tremble in 
her voice, too, as she said swiftly : 

“ They haven’t any business to tease you for that. 
Every one gets lost, sooner or later, on this mountain ; 
it isn’t the easiest thing to keep the path even after 
you have been up more than once.” 

“ But they mean no harm,” Ada hastened to say, in 
defense of her friends. She had not expected this 
warm defending from this stranger with the fiery 
dark eyes and the lips of scarlet. 

“ Of course they don’t,” the girl said, scornfully. 
u They never do. But I think it is mean to tease any 


78 


AT BROWN'S. 


one. I can’t bear it myself ; I bate any one wlio will 
tease me.” 

Ada smiled involuntarily. She shook her head 
sunnily. 

“ You can bear ever so much when you make up 
your mind to,” she said ; “ and then they are really 
good-hearted, and don’t mean to be trying, I know.” 

The flash of the girl’s eyes had not died, but she 
only asked, half timidly : 

“ Have you been up the mountain ? If you haven’t 
we are going now, and you might come — ” 

Ada interrupted her gently. It was against the 
girl’s nature to say these kindly things to strangers, 
she knew. She was a good student of character, and 
she read this girl’s vivid nature pretty clearly. She 
liked her, too. She was sincere, and sincerity is 
charming. 

“ O, yes,” she said, “ I found the top finally. I 
didn’t go up by the path, to be sure,” laughing mer- 
rily, making the girl answer with an echo of her light 
heart touched with the peace she had caught up yon- 
der, “ but I got up somehow. I scrambled and 
slipped and scratched my hands and my face, and 
looked literally like the man who jumped into a 
bramble-bush. The view is charming from the top, 


THE HILLS OF GOD. 


79 


and paid me well, though ; and of course I found this 
path coming down. Do you go up often ? ” 

“ No,” the younger girl said, looking toward her 
companion, who had strolled on slowly. “ This is the 
first time I have tried to climb it ; but they have told 
me so much about it it seems as if I had been up. 
Mr. Le Dow was just taking me. They think it’s 
dreadful to climb it, until one is nearly well, down 
there.” 

Ada smiled and nodded. She didn’t know where 
“ down there ” might be, but she w T as pretty sure she 
could find out. 

“ I’ll not detain you,” she said, glancing toward the 
girl’s companion. “ It is pleasant to have met you. 
It is pleasant to meet people on a mountain as lonely 
as this, anyway.” 

“ Yes,” the girl said. It was so natural for stran- 
gers and visitors to the village to ask questions of all 
sorts that she thought nothing of this girl’s questioning 
her as to the mountain path ; besides, she liked her. 
She was not given to liking strangers or many peo- 
ple, anyway, but there was this girl’s sweet, pale, 
tired face, with its soulful eyes, before her, and the 
smile on the tender mouth, somehow, went right down 
into her heart, and she would never forget the few 


80 


AT BROWN'S . 


chance words they had uttered, they two, on the side 
of the lonely mountain under the whispering trees. 

“ Good-bye,” Ada said, with a last slow smile 
straight into the dark eyes lifted to hers. 

“ Good-bye,” answered the other girl, with a part- 
ing of the red lips into an answering smile. 

And the girls went on their vastly different ways, 
the one up the mountain, the other down the shadowy 
path fragrant with the odor of pines. 


KE W A CQ UAINTANCE. 


81 


CHAPTER Y. 

A NEW ACQUAINTANCE. 

“ Doing both nobly, because lowlily* 

Live and work strongly — because patiently.” 

— A Drama of Exile . 

“ Yes, I think I know who you mean,” Mrs. Brown 
said, thoughtfully, as she watched the girl let down 
her heavy hair and shake it out Huffily, letting it fall 
below her waist in its softness of chestnut brown, curly 
and fine. “ She’s one of them sanatorium patients I 
was telling you about when you first come. There’s 
a good many, and new ones coming pretty often, but 
I try to keep run of ’em, because I feel so sort of 
sorry for ’em, so many of ’em young girls or moth- 
ers with their babies at home. There’s men, of course, 
but, someway, I feel more for ther women. They 
have more to leave, generally. But this girl, she come, 
I think, quite recent. She’s tall, you say, an’ pale, 
with red lips an’ a sweet face. Yes, I’m sure it’s ther 
one I thought of. She’s a nice girl, too ; sweet like, 

an’ they do say she’s very brave, staying away from 
6 


82 


AT BROWN'S. 


her mother when she’s the only daughter, an’ when 
she jest longs to go home. But this is her only chance 
— I’ve heard ’em say that so often it makes my heart 
ache — an’ she’s set her mind on stayin’ as long as tlier 
doctors think she’d ought to for her mother’s sake. 
You’ll like her, Miss Ada. She was dreadful sick 
when she first come, pale as a sheet, they say, and 
lookin’ altogether like a dead person, anyhow, but 
she’s got better. I’m sure I hope so, for she’s a sweet 
girl, an’ then I always think of the mother.” 

Yes, Ada was quite sure she always thought of the 
mother. This broad-hearted woman could give of he/ 
sympathy to mothers and those who suffered. 

“ And you say you’d like to know the girl better, 
after meeting her as you did on the mounting ? I’ll 
do what I can. I go quite often down to the sanato- 
rium, for I feel an interest and sort of property in 
them poor things sent out here away from their homes 
an’ them they care for, an’ I often go down to talk 
with them an’ make their acquaintance if I don’t al- 
ready know them ; but lately I’ve had so much to do 
here I’ve had no time to go down. I’ll go now, 
though. I can easy ask about this girl, though I’ve 
never spoke to her, for they all talk with you if you 
go down to jest see the patients, and they don't think 


A NEW ACQUAINTANCE. 


83 


nothing of questions about each other. I’ll take you 
along if you wish to go ; or I’ll speak to her about 
your meeting, if I see her, and so find out if she 
will meet you. They sometimes come up here for 
buttermilk, and mostly in spring for the sugar when 
it’s fresh made ; but may be she’ll come jest to see 
you, though I doubt that, for they aint special willing 
to meet strangers that they think want to see ’em 
from curiosity. But I’ll do what I can, and I’m 
’most sure I’ll get you two to know each other.” 

“ It is very good of you,” Ada said, softly ; “ but 
then you’ve been very good to me ever since I came, 
and this is no more kind than all the rest. It is so 
nice to have come to you ! ” 

“ It is nothing,” was the quiet answer. “ Sure it 
would be a shame *if one couldn’t do that little for a 
stranger here. The winter will be long, anyway, I 
fear, for you, shut up with us slow people with noth- 
ing going on but an occasional skating afternoon witli 
Jack. Jack is my good boy ; you will enjoy going 
with him, I know.” 

“ Indeed, I am sure I shall,” Ada answered, 
brightly, with a sad little pain at her heart at this 
unconscious acknowledgment of one “ good ” boy 
among the family of six sons. “ And you must not 


84 


AT BROWN'S. 


feel that I will be lonely, for I feel so much at home 
with you already I am certain to have a pleasant win- 
ter if you will let me stay.” 

“You know we are pleased to have you,” Mrs. 
Brown said, “ though we do not take boarders in 
winter, generally.” 

As to learning what she could about Ada’s new 
acquaintance she kept to her word, and the first aft- 
ernoon she could spare from the busy household she 
went down to see about it. 

Ada spent the afternoon walking around the road 
that led to Colby Pond, walking slowly, for the day 
was beautiful, though cold, and the road wound down 
past meadows where sheep were huddled or strayed 
among the stubble, past quiet farm-houses with chick- 
ens flocking at the gates, past and down to where the 
farm-houses gave place to log-houses and the barns 
were composed of rude sheds of logs or buildings 
better builded than the houses. It was a new life to 
her, and she noted every thing as she walked, her 
eyes sharp for effects that would set well on her can- 
vas, for Ada w^as to be an artist of no mean merit 
some day, and these strange phases of life — the shad- 
ows of life, as she called them — would remain in her 
memory to serve her well in the days to come. Up 


A NEW ACQUAINTANCE. 


85 


to the left the home mountain rose crowned with 
pines, with the afternoon sunlight sifted iinely through 
the heavy boughs of the odorous trees ; and straight 
ahead ran Paul Smith’s road, with its scattered home- 
life and stretches of pine forests and scrubby meadow 
that made up the average mountain scenery. 

“ It is so pleasant,” Ada said to herself, smiling 
slowly as she paused now and then to note the lights 
and shadows among the pines in the distance, or the 
bare unshaded log-house set close to the road, with 
its tiny windows like shrewd eyes keeping watch over 
the secrets within. “ It is pleasant and still and full 
of the fragrant pine breath, but, after all, would one 
give up life in the city with its broader reach of 
human knowledge, to live here rudely among the 
mountains ? — with no daily paper, no educational ad- 
vantages — for one could not, even with the broadest 
sweep of charity, call that little bare scant school- 
house back there on the hill an educational advantage 
— with simply nothing of even the true home-life or 
the social life that makes living in our nineteenth 
century, and with no cl lurch within walking distance, 
with the children brought up as the parents and grand- 
parents doubtless were brought up — but in what fash- 
ion ! It makes my heart sick when I think of what 


86 


AT BROWN'S. 


these children are deprived in their strange life, with- 
out even the benefit of knowing the marvelous grand- 
eur of God’s silent hills nor the time to lift life and 
soul beyond the struggle for daily bread long enough 
to catch the fleeting promises in the exquisite sunsets 
painting the heavens and the mountains as I acknowl- 
edge I have never before seen sky and hills painted 
even by master-hands on canvas. They cannot even 
know the wonders of the life they live, nor the height 
they might make it. They do not dream — not the 
half of them — the grand thought that makes their 
mountain home nearer to God ; 

“ ‘ For to be alone with silence 

Is to be alone with God !’ ” 

concluded Ada, with a reverent little clasping of her 
fingers in front of her, loosely clasped, but with a 
sort of prayer for the lonely, shut-out lives of those 
around her. 

She did not go down so far as the pond, for she was 
growing weary, and the walk home would be harder 
because of the ascent all the way; so she turned 
down by one of the bare little log-houses and re- 
traced her way with a deep breath, as if to for- 
tify herself for the coining climb. She laughed, 
thinking of her walk up the mountain a few days 


A NEW ACQUAINTANCE. 


87 


previous, and her thoughts went back to the tall, pale 
girl she had met along the path, and the dark fiery 
eyes haunted her, they were so full of disquiet and a 
restless spirit of defiance. She walked slowly, think- 
ing of her new acquaintance, and the sun was set- 
ting lowly down the mountain toward the west as she 
reached the liill-top and paused ere going up the 
walk to the house. There was Whiteface, touched 
with early snow, peering between the heads of Sad- 
dleback and Mackenzie, and Baker black with pines 
set in gloom with a hint of fiery color across its 
shoulders, while a streak of silver was the river at its 
feet, and the heavens above were gleaming with rose 
and crimson and green — the green that is called 
sea-green — and purples blending with the far ranges 
to the north. 

It was an exquisite sight, and Ada fairly held her 
breath as she gazed, her soul in her eyes, away to the 
mountains trembling in the colors set between the 
lights ; then she turned and walked up the open front 
yard to the piazza, her thoughts confusedly mingled of 
the sunset, the strange still life of the hills for those 
in their heart, and the girl down below whose 
great dark eyes would haunt her with their unquiet 
longing. 


88 


AT BROWN'S. 


Mrs. Brown had long been at home from her kindly 
errand, but she had done her work effectually. 

“ Yes, it was her you seen that morning,” she ex- 
plained to Ada, sitting in her chamber that evening, 
at the girl’s request, that they might talk quietly out 
of range of the noise and smoke of the sitting-room, 
where the boys were smoking and drinking cider and 
playing cards. “I was pretty sure wdien you told 
about it. I was to see some of the older patients, and, 
as was natural, they asked me if I had seen the new 
cottage — they’re buildin’ the place up wonderful — 
and of course 1 said I should like to see it ; so they 
took me up there, and this girl was there, and we got 
talking together, and some way it come easy to speak 
of you, our new boarder, and this Miss Deering, she 
asked about how you looked, and said she guessed you 
were the one she met one day on the mountain ; and 
I said I shouldn’t be surprised, for you had been up 
there ; and then we talked more, and the others left 
us to ourselves, not being interested in what we were 
talking about ; and I found out that the girl is lonely 
up here in spite of the plenty of boarders, for she is 
very young, only seventeen, and her mother is every 
tiling to her, and she would be glad to have a real 
true friend who she could go to when she feels like 


A NEW ACQUAINTANCE. 


89 


it. And so she will be glad to see you whenever you 
want to go. And I was thinking how easy it would 
be, and sort of set you friendly at once, if you should 
go down and take her out driving some afternoon. 
They have horses there ; but of course there are many 
to go, and they have to take their chances, and they 
are glad of an offer to take them out. It would be a 
real good thought for you to go if you would like to, 
Miss Ada.” 

Ada clapped her hands as gleefully as a child, and 
her face was aglow with pleasure. 

“ It’s just like you to think of some way, Mrs. 
Brown ! ” she cried. “ You are a regular blessing to 
any one ! How would it do for me to go down to- 
morrow afternoon, if it is clear, and ask her to go ? I 
can order a rig up from the livery, and we could have 
a nice long afternoon together. Deering — what a 
pretty name ! but she’s pretty herself, and the name 
suits her.” 

Mrs. Brown nodded. 

“You will find her a nice, pleasant girl,” she said. 
“ I liked her at once. There is something frank about 
her that makes you like her. I think it would be 
well for you to go as you say, if you wish. I am 
only sorry we cannot offer you a horse ; but there’s 


90 


AT BROWN'S. 


only Sorrel out of working harness, and he’d never do 
for a lady to drive — ” 

Ada interrupted her eagerly : 
u It’s good of you to mention such a thing, Mrs. 
Brown ; but I could not think of it in any case. It’ll 
be easy as can be to order from the livery, and I ex- 
pected to do it a great deal this winter when the 
sleighing came ; but it is as well to begin now, so as 
to sort of get my hand in, you know ! ” she laughed 
lightly. “ Of course I know how to drive ; I have 
driven ever since I could hold the lines over a horse’s 
back ; papa believes in a woman understanding such 
things, you know ; and he always used to let me drive 
him down-town at home. While mamma was sick, 
of course, I didn’t do it,” she added, softly ; “ but I 
know papa would like me to keep up the practice 
here. I’ll write and tell him about it, and he will 
agree, you may be sure. He wants me to have a good 
time, and this is going to be a nicer time than I 
thought — having a companion ! It was pleasant to 
go with papa, but that was almost the only time I 
had with him, he is so bound up in business and his 
thoughts are always at the bank, I tell him, so that 
we really didn't enjoy the drives down-town as much 
as we should have enjoyed a drive over the mountains 


A NEW ACQUAINTANCE. 


91 


here for one day. How we should have enjoyed 
it ! ” She buried her chin in her hand for a minute in 
deep thought, a shadow growing and deepening in the 
lowered dark eyes ; then she lifted her face up bravely, 
meeting the kindly light of the watching eyes op- 
posite. 

“ How lonely papa must be now ! ” she said. “ I’m 
afraid I haven’t half thought of how he must be 
alone in that big house, now mamma is away.” 

But she would not long allow her dark thoughts to 
shadow the silent woman by the narrow eastern win- 
dow ; so she added, with a laugh that was tender and 
low if not very brave : 

“ But papa knew what he was doing when he let 
me come to you, and I must hurry to get well and 
strong, so that I may go home and help cheer him up, 
mustn’t I, Mrs. Brown ? ” 

And Mrs. Brown said yes, gravely, and bade the 
girl good-night, Blinking many thoughts in her heart’s 
silence as she went down the narrow stairs to the sit- 
ting-room where her boys were with tlieir pipes and 
their cards and cider. And Ada went to bed and 
slept deeply the night through, eager for the coming 
day when she should renew her acquaintance with the 
tall girl at the mountain sanatorium, trying to be 


AT BROWN'S. 


brave in lier way as Ada was in hers, though she still 
could go to her mother, as Ada could not. 

And as soon as dinner was over — before it was well 
over, in fact — when the horse and buggy came up 
from the livery in the village, Ada was ready and off, 
not a fear in her heart at this strange mode of mak- 
ing friends, looking very sweet as she drove away 
from under the dining-room windows where many eyes 
were watching, down the hill and around up to the 
cottages where this young girl was staying. 

The view was not so wide from the lower slope as 
it was from her own windows, but the river showed 
prettily down around the bend where the hunters way- 
laid the wild ducks in their flight, and Baker set off 
the greener mountains with its dark heights of pine, 
its rugged sides discovering deep cuts and scars from 
the winters and floods of spring which did not show 
from the higher hill. 

Ada drove up to the steps of the main piazza, and 
as there was no one there whom she could ask for 
Miss Deering she was beginning to think this novel 
acquaintance was not so easy as she had believed, when 
a gentleman appeared at the door, and she spoke to 
him, asking for her friend. He would find her at 
once, he said, politely, and Ada sat there waiting with 


A NEW ACQUAINTANCE. 


93 


a little trembling, wondering what on earth she should 
say at first to the girl when she should come. But 
she had been out in the world enough to let such a 
thought hold possession of her mind only a moment, 
and when the girl herself appeared a few moments 
later she was waiting, leaning back in the carriage, 
sweet and cool and quiet as if an uneasy thought had 
never come to her. Her dark eyes met those lifted 
inquiringly to hers as the girl came down the steps 
to the side of the carriage. 

“ This is Miss Deering, I am sure/’ she said, softly, 
her lips parting in her winning smile that had drawn 
the girl toward her at their first meeting. “ Mrs. 
Brown told me about you, and I am certain you know 
who I am ” — she laughed here, lightly and merrily — 
“ so there is almost no need of an introduction. Only, 
will you come with me for a drive this afternoon ? 
We know each other well enough for that, surely, and 
I want to know you better than I could by those few 
minutes on the mountain when I was lost and you 
told me the road to the Browns’ ! Will you come, 
Miss Deering \ I will promise to bring you safely 
back. This horse is gentle — or at least the liveryman 
said so ” — she laughed again — “ and I am capable of 
managing more fiery animals than he looks, though he 


94 


AT BROWN'S. 


is a pretty creature enough. Tell Mrs. Maynard, if 
she wishes to know, that I am perfectly reliable, and 
she can inquire of Mrs. Brown. Will you come now, 
Miss Deering ? ” 

The girl on the steps laughed frankly. She gen- 
erally disliked strangers, and dreaded to make new 
acquaintances ; but this girl was different, somehow, 
and she could not feel as if she were a perfect stranger. 
And then she asked herself if her mother would like 
it and the answering thought was as swift as the 
questioning thought had been, that her mother could 
not wish for her a sweeter or truer friend than this 
girl she knew instinctively would be. So she lifted 
her clear, pale face to the eager face in the carriage and 
said, slowly, without a trace of awkwardness : 

“ I should like so very much to go. It is kind of 
you to care to come for me. Mrs. Maynard will not 
object, for Mrs. Brown told her all about you yester- 
day. She is glad I may have a friend here like you, 
for she is very good to me, and sort of tries to take 
mamma’s place, you know, in watching over me; 
but no one could take mamma’s place — quite, you 
know.” 

“ I know,” Ada said, gently, a deeper light in her 
own eyes meeting the softening eyes lifted to hers. 


A NEW ACQUAINTANCE. 


95 


“ My mother is in heaven, you know, Miss Deering, 
but I, too, know she would be glad for ine to have 
your friendship. Are you ready ? ” 

“ Am I ready ? ” asked the other girl, laughing to 
cover the slight awkwardness of these few heart-felt 
words. “ I will change my dress, if you can wait, or 
I will go as I am. Which shall it be ? ” 

“ Come as you are, of course,” said Ada, promptly, 
turning back the lap-robe and cramping the wheels a 
little more for the girl to get in easily. “ I never 
dress up to drive, unless it is to go in the park at 
home, for I somehow never feel so easy. I have my 
walking-dress on at this minute, for I wear the same 
mountain dress at all times, excepting on Sundays. 
It gives one a freer feeling to know there is no need 
of dressing on any and every occasion ; and I believe 
that is one secret of our doing so well up there. We 
just go in for having a good time, and walk and drive 
and eat all in the very dress in which we "first made 
our appearance in the morning. Do you do that way 
down here? Perhaps you feel more need of dressing 
where there are so many and always some stranger 
coming.” 

“No,” Miss Deering said, positively, shaking her 
head, “ we do as you say, wear the same dress every 


96 


AT BROWN'S. 


day, excepting Sundays, and some of them wear it 
even then, as they don’t all go to church, until it ab- 
solutely fades to nothing or drops apart. That is 
surely freedom from any conventionality.” 

Ada laughed in answer to the droll description and 
turned the horse’s head away from the house down the 
hill-road. 

“Let us drive out on the Placid road if you don’t 
mind,” she said. “ I have never been there, and they 
say it is so very pretty.” 

“Anywhere,” answered Miss Peering, unconcern- 
edly, though her somber dark eyes were lighting with 
new life. “I love to ride, and the Placid road is 
pretty if you have been there a hundred times. Do 
you know any thing about the drives here? The 
drive through Ehrich’s Woods, back of the village, is 
beautiful, too, and so is part of the Bloomingdale road 
and up to the Ampersand. You will enjoy it here, I 
think. We should enjoy it more if we could go 
where and when we pleased — that is, if we had horses 
of our own, you know ; ” and she laughed. She was 
waking up under the gentle influence of the girl at 
her side who was so unconscious of her being a new 
acquaintance and treated her as if they had known 
each other for years instead of simply a few minutes. 


A NEW ACQUAINTANCE. 


97 


“ I sliall have to get you to show me these pretty 
drives,” Ada said, smiling, “ for I know nothing 
about them, and intend to make good use of the liv- 
ery here this winter. I am so fond of driving, and it 
is good to have a companion and a friend as well.” 

“ It will be nicer for me than it possibly could be 
for you,” Miss Deering said, a flush coming into her 
pale cheeks and her eyes sparkling. “ I love to drive, 
but it takes a good deal of money to hire often, and 
we don’t feel specially wealthy up here.” 

“ It does take a good deal of money, I suppose,” 
Ada said, a new expression on her face for this frank- 
spoken girl ; “ but papa likes me to keep in training 
for driving, and it is such a healthy exercise I thor- 
oughly enjoy it. I am sure we shall have many a nice 
time together if you are willing, Miss Deering.” 

“ Don’t call me Miss Deering,” the girl said, later. 
They were driving up the Sanatorium road as the 
sun was setting back of the mountain and the eastern 
hills were flushed in the new light. “ You let me call 
you Miss Ada, and I don't want you to call me by any 
such stiff name. Let me be Clare to you, wont you ? 
It will sound sort of like home to hear it again.” 

There was a wistfulness in her voice that touched 
Ada’s heart, though she uttered no conventional word 
7 


98 


AT BROWN'S. 


of sympathy. She was not given to words of sympa- 
thy any more than was the strange girl at her side. 
She only turned her tender face, softly flushing with 
the beautiful light from the west, her eyes deep as 
wells of pity, as she lightly and but for one swift sec- 
ond laid her warm, dimpled hand over the slender 
hands of the other, folded on the robe, saying, with a 
soft little laugh that brought a tender mist to drown 
the fierce black eyes turned upon her, 

“ Clare is such a pretty name ! I like you better 
for it ; only I was thinking — ” 

“What?” demanded the sweet, querulous voice. 

“I was thinking,” and Ada laughed with forced 
bravery, “ that I should like to call you ‘ Deary,’ as a 
sort of nickname from your own name, and because ” — 
she choked a minute — “ because my mother used it al- 
ways as a pet name for me, and it would sort of bring 
her with us if I called you by it.” 

There was no fire now in the eyes turned steadily 
upon hers. There was only a darkening of the lights, 
a deepening of the black to tenderest, softest depth, 
as, not saying a word, the other girl caught swiftly 
between her own the warm, lightly touching, dimpled 
hand laid over hers, meaning so much that words 
could never utter. 


A SABBATH LESSON. 


99 


CHAPTER VI. 

A SABBATH LESSON. 

“ That’s best 

Which God sends. ’Twas his will: it is mine. And the rest 

Of that riddle I will not look back to .” — Owen Meredith. 

“ Of course you will not venture to clmrcl), as it 
is snowing,” Ella said to the new boarder as they sat 
late at breakfast the following Sunday. “Mother 
always goes, you know, but you need not if you do 
not wish.” 

“Thank you,” Ada said, quietly; “but I expect to 
go. The snow is light, and I never mind snow, any- 
way. Miss Peering and I drove to Bloomingdale 
yesterday while it snowed, and it ought not to hurt me 
more to go to church.” She laughed pleasantly, but 
for some reason she and this daughter of her hostess 
did not get on well together. There was something 
cold about the tall girl that chilled Ada’s warm heart ; 
then, too, she saw, without appearing to do so, the un- 
sympathetic relation between the mother and daughter, 
and knew it was not the mother’s fault. “ Besides, I 


100 


AT BROWN'S. 


rather wish to go to-day, and had an engagement to go 
with Miss Deering, there being nothing said about 
clear or stormy weather; but the patients go out in 
all sorts of weather ; so this light snow cannot hinder 
her. It isn’t really a hard storm, you know,” she 
added, not wishing to be disagreeable, and seeing the 
half sneer on the girl’s fair face lifted defiantly above 
her poised coffee-cup as she listened. 

“ I’m sure there’s not the slightest objection to your 
going if you wish,” the girl answered, coldly. She 
had almost hoped to find the new boarder one of 
whom she could make a companion during the shut- 
in winter months, and found instead a girl used to all 
weathers and bent on doing any thing rather than liv- 
ing within closed walls during the winter. Then the 
boys had taken her up as they were not in the habit 
of taking up boarders they might have in the house- 
hold, and her nature was a jealous one and quick to 
imagine an injury where there was none intended. 
She wished to be first among her brothers, although 
there was very little real love among them. She would 
not give up her place, she foolishly argued with her- 
self, for this stranger girl from the city, who had 
already won her mother’s heart with her gentleness. 
“ Go, of course, if you want to, Miss Ada ; we do as 


A SABBATH LESSON. 


101 


we like here ; it is a sort of go-as-you-please household, 
ours. One of the boys goes with mother to drive, aud 
the rest of us usually on Sunday take life easy and rest 
for the coming week. Are you going down to-day, 
Jim 

“ Yes,” Jim answered, a flush coming in his face. 
“ I have to meet one of the fellows down at Duke’s, 
and shall not come back till meetin’ is out. ’Taint 
goin’ to be much of a storm, Miss Ada ; you’ll enjoy 
the ride down, an’ we’ll take the team, so as to go 
easier.” 

“ The team ! ” Ella exclaimed, an angry flush also 
coming in her face. “ I thought you said you would 
not take the team out again this winter for any one, 
Jim Brown ! I’m sure you made time enough about 
it when Tom drove Mamie and me over to the Am- 
persand a week ago ! If you’re changing your mind — ” 

The flash in her brother’s eyes silenced her. He 
was angry, and she did not care to offend this good- 
natured brother, whose temper was furious when once 
on fire, though it took considerable to enkindle it. 

“ We are going with the team this morning, an’ ef 
you have any objection to make keep it to yourself,” 
he said, sharply. And his sister knew him well enough 
to do as he advised. 


102 


AT BROWN'S. 


But Ada was uncomfortable. That this taking the 
“ team ” out might have something to do with her 
going she was pretty certain ; she also knew that Ella 
did not like her, and that these few sharp words be- 
tween the brother and sister sprang from the favor to 
be done to herself. She turned to Mrs. Brown in 
perplexity. 

“ Don’t let me make any difference in your going 
to church,” she said, wistfully, the lurking trouble in 
her eyes helping to quiet the wrath burning on Jim’s 
face. “ I have an engagement to go with Miss Deer- 
ing anyway, and we shall walk, of course. I am sorry 
if you would take any trouble for me, Mr. Brown. 
Please don’t ever do it.” 

He laughed in his old good-natured way, and the 
laugh blew the brimming coffee over the rim of his 
lifted cup. There was a mischievous twinkle in his 
eyes, too, as he glanced over at his sister, who was bit- 
ing savagely at a crust of warm bread. 

“ Don’t you worry about its bein’ any trouble, Miss 
Ada,” he said, and he made his words very distinct, for 
the benefit of the angry girl opposite. “ The team’s 
better goin’ than standin’ in their stalls, an’ ef you’ve 
a friend down at tlier san’torium who you want to go 
she can just as well as not go with us. There’s lots 


A SABBATH LESS OK 


103 


of room in tlier wagon, an’ it’d be a shame ef we couldn’t 
take one more, special’ one of them patients down 
there. They’re a nice lot o’ folks, an’ seem to have as 
good a time as tlier best of us. I’ve often give ’em a 
ride week-days without bein’ asked, an’ I reckon we 
can fix it fer Sunday, too.” 

This was the finishing touch for his sister’s wrath, 
but he looked very innocent and good-natured, and 
Ada was uncertain whether or not he meant unkind- 
ness to lurk among the pleasant welcome of his invi- 
tation. 

“I’m sure it’s very nice of you,” she said, “and 
Miss Deering and I will gladly accept your offer, 
though I wouldn’t for the world have you put your- 
self out for us. We’re quite used to walking, and in- 
tend to get hardened to all sorts of weather this win- 
ter.” She laughed, and he joined her ; Jack, too, looked 
up with brilliant, appreciative eyes. He had his en- 
gagement to help her enjoy the winter, and there was 
a pleasure in the thought that the really fine boy 
appreciated to the full. It was almost as good as 
having a sister who liked life as some of the other 
fellows’ sisters did who came up there and made the 
winter a time for jolly outings. He wished Ella were 
fond of such things, for Ella was his sister ; but she 


104 


AT BROWN'S. 


detested cold weather, and shuddered if a breath of 
cold air blew upon her. 

“ You needn’t worry ’bout et’s bein’ trouble,” Jim 
said, quietly. “ I’ll let you know if ever et gets to that. 
We start ’bout half after ten, isn’t it, marm? That 
gives plenty of time, an’ your friend wont have to 
hurry like all possessed to get into her dress.” 

“ It is better for you to ride than walk,” Mrs. Brown 
said, as quietly as her son had spoken, though she also 
knew of the storm brewing under the icy exterior of 
her daughter’s manner. “ Service is quite long, some- 
times, and one is apt to take cold sitting in the warm 
building and then going out again in the wind, espe- 
cially after walking.” 

“You know best, of course,” Ada said; but she 
could not shake off the uneasy feeling of having been 
the cause of some unpleasantness between the son and 
daughter of this kind friend of hers. But nothing 
more was said in her presence, though there were 
flashing glances now and then between the two, daring 
in the young man’s eyes, a vindictive spirit in the 
girl’s. 

As the “ team ” came up to the door, Jim driving, 
and Mrs. Brown and Ada went out, the young man 
leaping lightly to the ground to assist them, Ella, 


A SABBATH LESSON. 


105 


standing in the bay window, her face sullen and angry, 
broke off a deep cluster of geranium blossom and 
threw it with sudden fury under her feet. She was 
not thinking of her action, but a flush was mounting 
the pale fairness of her face, and the cold blue eyes 
were flashing with fire. The team looked uncom- 
monly well, too, for Jim had evidently taken pains to 
shine up the harness and groom the horses’ coats, while 
even the wheels of the wagon were shining, newly 
washed. The team consisted of the sorrel colt and 
the bay, as fine animals as were to be seen in that part 
of the country, and the pride of their owner, for Jim 
was^precially fond of horse-flesh and spent more money 
in that than his prudent father considered advisable, 
although his son was of age and competent to judge 
for himself. The whole turn-out looked remarkably 
well ; and again the girl’s eyes flashed in her anger, 
watching them as they drove away, her mother with 
Jim on the front seat and Ada behind with room 
beside her for her friend. 

She did not notice the angry girl at the window 
among the flowers, but had she done so she would 
scarcely have thought of it a second time, her mind 
was so quiet, her thoughts far away to the days she 
and her mother went to church together, so differently 


106 


AT BROWN'S. 


from this strange way, though it was seldom her 
father joined them at morning service, waiting until 
evening for the family group. She had the w’orn lit- 
tle Bible of her mother’s clasped closely between her 
fingers, and it seemed to comfort her, sitting very silent 
during the drive down to the cottage for her friend. 

The service was long that morning ; the seats were 
bare and hard ; the full sun streaming in through the 
unshuttered windows was rather blinding to eyes un- 
accustomed to such strong light ; but the girl kept her 
peaceful heart through all, some of the words uttered 
by the minister, though not brilliant, entering her 
heart with tender meaning and lingering there to 
encourage her through many a trying day in the 
future. Miss Deering sat beside her very quiet and 
attentive, though her pale face w r as inscrutable and the 
dark eyes would tell no story of what lay beneath, 
though Ada, glancing toward her now and then 
through the service, was certain a softness crept 
around the sensitive mouth and a tenderness over the 
whole sweet face pure as a child’s in the glaring light 
falling upon it from the bare windows. Once when 
their heads were bowed in prayer Ada laid her hand 
lightly for a moment over the hand lying in the girl’s 
lap, and though there was no answering pressure she 


A SABBATH LESSON. 


107 


felt the tense fingers relax and the bent head stoop 
yet a trifie lower upon the hack of the seat in front. 

“ Jim’s late,” Mrs. Brown said, as they stood on the 
steps looking up the road for any sign of the carriage. 
“ He said he had to meet some one at Mr. Duke’s, 
didn’t he, Miss Ada ? That is the reason, I suppose. 
He will be along presently. Are you cold, either of 
you ? If so we had better step inside out of the wind, 
and Jim can find us' as easy as here.” 

A new peace was upon her face, and Ada won- 
dered how she could have thought it held the height 
of peace before when here was an altogether new 
expression upon every set feature. There was no 
smiling of the stern mouth ; it seemed to the girl 
there was never meant to be smiling of those straight 
lips, but a light down in the steady eyes and a light 
shining through every rough feature somehow set a 
new seal upon her. 

“ It is rather chilly,” Ada said, more for her friend 
than herself, for she laughingly appointed herself 
guardian over the pale girl who had come so strangely 
into her friendship. “And if your son will find us 
as well inside perhaps it would be better to stand 
there.” She slipped one hand under the arm of her 
companion, and touched only for one instant the hands 


108 


AT BROWN'S. 


folded stiffly one over the other in front of the woman 
on her other side, but the light touch meant as much 
of sympathy for her as for the girl she touched with 
more assurance. She laughed cheerily and stamped 
her foot, saying that it was really getting wintry, 
and then mentioned what a good sermon they had 
that morning. 

“ As if one would stay away from hearing those 
helpful words just because it might snow a trifle,” she 
said, smiling softly. “ Isn’t it like home, going to 
church, Miss Deering?” 

When they were alone it would do to call each 
other by the more familiar names, but with others 
around it sounded more conventional to speak with 
less freedom. They might be Clare and Ada, or Ada 
and “ Deary” between themselves; they would be 
Miss Ada and Miss Deering among others. 

“ Yes,” Miss Deering said, slowly, no emotion on 
her face. “ But it isn’t quite home, either, Miss Ada, 
for mother goes with me then, and there are my 
friends and all that, you know.” 

“ I know,” Ada said, gently ; “ but I wish you were 
up with Mrs. Brown, Miss Deering ; you really 
wouldn’t be half so homesick as among so many 
strangers — ” 


A SABBATH LESSON. 


109 


“ I’m not homesick,” protested the other girl, quick- 
ly, an indignant flash in the somber eyes. 

“But you know what I mean,” Ada hastened to 
add, her eyes so gentle the other felt her momentary 
anger fade. “ It is so nice to have Mrs. Brown to go 
to when one wants advice.” She touched again the 
folded hands in their wrinkled black gloves. “ And 
here comes Mr. Brown, at last.” 

Jim was coming without a doubt, but what was the 
matter with him ? The horses were coming steadily, 
for they knew every inch of the road, and Sorrel es- 
pecially had come over this ground too often to be 
misled ; but the driver’s face was ’woefully flushed, 
and his voice unsteady as he called to them, drawing 
up at the sidewalk with a flourish and loud “Whoa” 
that brought the horses to an sudden stand. 

Ada understood the situation at once, and glanced 
stealthily at Mrs. Brown to see the effect upon her. 
But if she expected to discover any sign of wavering 
in the calm woman she was mistaken and disappointed. 
The mother was as quiet as the son was noisy, and went 
down the few steep steps to the walk, lifting her neat 
black dress from the slush of the boards, her face as 
gravely set as usual, her eyes as steady and heart-hiding. 

The girl felt an unaccountable admiration for her 


110 


AT BROWN'S. 


as she watched her in her unmoved dignity, turning 
at the wagon for them to get in first, telling her son, 
speaking steadily, that there v T as no need for him to 
get down to help them, as they could do very well, 
and the horses might start without his hands on the 
reins. There was a flash of indignation in her heart, 
however, against this young man so darkening the life 
of as brave a woman as there was on the broad earth, 
so ruining his own life without pausing to think and 
not caring what must come with the future. She 
pressed her hand down firmly but quietly on Clare’s 
arm, helping her to enter the carriage safely with the 
restless horses moving constantly ; and the young girl 
understood the unspoken wish for her to notice nothing 
out of the common in the man waiting for his mother 
to mount to his side, holding the robe idiotically in a 
straight line until she seated herself and drew it quietly 
over her lap. 

“ It’s just too bad ! ” she declared to herself a dozen 
times on the way back to the farm-house, though she 
tried to keep up conversation and let the mother 
know nothing of what was in her heart. “It’s just 
too bad for him to do so with such a mother as he 
has ! This is what has helped to set the seal of silence 
over her life — this bitterness and curse that carries 


A SABBATH LESSON. 


Ill 


sorrow into whatever home it enters.” She knew 
nothing of such bitterness in her own life, for her 
father was the height of honor, and would as soon 
soil his hands with fraud as with drunkenness, and 
her friends were not among the class who drink till 
the hours are small and manhood gives way to imbe- 
cility. She had heard enough of the sorrows coming 
from this curse upon the world, and had seen drunk- 
enness upon the streets many times at home, and her 
heart had always ached not only for the home- watch- 
ers, but for the man himself who was selling his soul 
and soiling his hands for the stuff that “ biteth like a 
serpent and stingeth like an adder.” “I wish there 
were something I could do to lighten her heart, for 
though she would utter no sound of suffering if she 
were on the rack, yet I am not blind, and I have not 
seen her every day for the past week or so without 
knowing a little about her. If she were my mother 
I think it would break my heart.” 

“ Duke’s got a magnificent animal ! ” the young man 
was saying, unsteadily, taking the whip from its socket 
and trying it upon the road-side bushes, the colts start- 
ing with fright on a flying canter down the road above 
the steep river bank. “ He bought it of Perkins, down 
at Plattsburg, an’ brought it up yesterday. She’s a 


112 


AT BROWN'S. 


beauty in horse-flesh, an’ I offered him a pretty high 
price for her, which he wouldn’t accept. Smart feller, 
that Duke ! He’ll hold onto that animal till the price 
gets pretty middlin’ high, an’ then he’ll down on us 
all with the news that he liaint no mind to sell her at 
any price, an’ so get an offer that ’d make most any 
man’s hair stand up ! ” 

He laughed at his own wit and cut one or two of 
the road-side bushes into broken stalks, flying as they 
were at a break-neck pace along the dangerous road. 
His mother nodded as if she comprehended all he was 
saying, while her heart was perhaps aching as only a 
mother’s heart can ache when her son is spoiling his 
life and the lives of those around him. 

“Mr. Duke generally does have fine horses,” she 
said ; “but I doubt if lie has better animals than you, 
after all, or a pair that would bear the whip so little. 
Even the sound of its slightest crackling sends them 
off on a race.” 

She knew how to manage her son. Ada’s heart 
went out to her in admiration of her perfect self-con- 
trol and her command of her son, even in the iinbe-’ 
cility of his drunkenness, by her subtle power of com- 
mand. Her hand went out to the hand of her friend, 
and the two girls tried to keep up a murmur of 


A SABBATH LESSON. 


113 


words, whether intelligible or not they could never 
tell, to lighten the weight of the mother’s heart ; and 
their eyes, seeking each other’s, said that which the 
lips would never have dared utter before this woman’s 
suffering. 

“ I don’t think I have ever seen a more finely 
matched team than yours anyway,” Ada said, smiling 
bravely, as she leaned forward with apparent uncon- 
sciousness of the young man’s condition, her light hand 
resting on the back of the seat ahead of her just so 
that the soft fingers touched, as though unintention- 
ally, the shoulder of his companion. 6i Their heights 
are perfect, and they step as if made for each other.” 

“ It isn’t wicked, I’m sure,” she said to herself as 
she saw the light in the faded eyes of the mother at 
her kindly thought. “ I’m sure it isn’t wicked to 
talk even ‘ horse- talk ’ on Sunday if it will comfort 
this woman in her sorrow ! ” 

The young man smiled back at her with unsteady 
candor. The whip w~as back in its socket, and the 
horses were going at a more sober pace, though still 
their heads were uneasy and their backs nervous at 
the lightest tightening of the reins. ITe nodded at 
her, too, and his blood-shot eyes gleamed with pleasure. 

“ They’s a fine set,” he said, slowly, turning again 
8 


114 


AT BROWN'S. 


to eye tlie animals before him. “ I’ll acknowledge 
they’s a fine team ; an’ even Duke, he asked me, larfin’, 
what I wanted of another animal ? I s’pose I am fool- 
ish ’bout bosses, but it makes my heart jest stan’ still 
lookin’ at sech a fine creature an’ a-wantin’ her even 
when I know may be as well as any one that I’ve as 
good hosses in my barn as any man in this hyar 
county. Marm knows a good boss, too, when she 
sees one, an’ I think she’d feel safer goin’ behind 
these hyar colts to church ’n she would ahind o’ Duke’s 
skittish black. You fond o’ hosses, Miss Ada? An’ 
your friend there — does she like ’em special ? Gals 
aint often took up with critters — leastways El, she 
aint, though she was powerful mad at me when I said 
I’d take you with ther team this mornin’. She’s 
jealous, you see, an’ can’t bear to hev no one come 
ahead o’ her. She was mad as a March hare on this 
’count, ’cause she an’ thet friend o’ hers, they got Tom 
to drive ’em with ther team one day when I wa’n’t to 
home, an’ these hosses is mine, an’ I don’t ’low no one 
to drive behind ’em without my leave ’ceptin’ marm. 
So o’ course I give ’em hail to ther chief fer takin’ 
’em ; an’ that made El mad when she knew you was 
to go behind of ’em to church, fer El aint no more 
struck with goin’ to meetin’ ’n ther rest of us, ’ceptin’ 


A SABBATH LESS OK 


115 


inarm, who’d go ef et rained pitchforks, tines down. 
Eh, marm ? ” 

He touched the stern face lightly with his rough 
hand and leered into the steady eyes raised to his 
with the mother’s soul in them ; and Ada wondered, 
watching them, her hand on Clare’s, how this man 
could so wound the tender heart aching witli unutter- 
able love for him in spite of his thoughtlessness of her. 

“ We’ll come fer you next Sunday,” he said to 
Clare as she stood on the steps of the main building 
for a moment to watch them turn back down the 
drive. “ An’ we’ll liev tlier team, too,” he laughed. 
But there was no answering laugh on her lips as she 
met for one moment the grieved eyes of her new 
friend turned upon her as the “ colts ” swung round 
and raced down the road with the knowledge of being 
near home straining their lithe limbs. 

And as the snow fell lighter and lighter until there 
was a break of blue sky at sunset, and the sun strug- 
gled through back of the home mountain, touching the 
opposite eastern range into reds and purples and greens 
of royal painting, Ada went softly down-stairs to the 
sitting-room, where she was pretty certain she should 
find Mrs. Brown. Opening the door softly, She found 
her, as she expected, with the open Bible on her knee, 


116 


AT BROWN'S. 


lier spectacles pushed up on her forehead as she let 
her eyes stray from the open page to the broad page 
stretching before her on the yonder hills where peace 
was throned. Ada said gently, with a lialf-faltering 
smile, as though uncertain how her words would be 
received : 

“ Shall I disturb you the least bit if I go in and play 
a little to sort of comfort me for Sunday afternoon, 
Mrs. Brown ? ” 

And she was glad she said it when the eyes turned 
from the distant hills upon her with a fleeting flash as 
if tears were not far behind, and the woman an- 
swered her with her quiet voice : 

“ Go in, of course, if you’d like to, Miss Ada. This 
is your home for the winter, you know, and you are to 
do as you please in it. I like music myself on Sun- 
days.” 

And presently, when the lights were too dim for her 
to And the keys, and she softly closed the piano and re- 
turned to the sitting-room flooded with a rosy glow 
from the heater at one end, she found her hostess sit- 
ting as if she had not moved hand or foot, her eyes 
staring unseeing out to the faintly discernible line of 
hills, her hands clasped over the open page, a touch 
upon her face utterly new to the girl, knowing her 


A SABBATH LESS OK 


117 


such a short time, knowing her noble spirit so well. 
She was alone ; Ella was up in her room buried in a 
novel lent her by her friend from the village ; the boys 
were scattered, most of them gone off with friends, 
while the head of the house was in the kitchen buried 
in the depths of tobacco-smoke and cider, the glass 
standing empty upon the table beside him as he lost 
himself for the time in an unsteady slumber that was 
to fit him for the work of the week. 

The sitting-room was dark, excepting for this light 
from the fire, and to the lonely woman sitting at the 
window with her hands clasped over the page of her 
comfort and her eyes upon the hills of the Lord settling 
down into darkness also, the music from the parlor 
came like music from heaven with its comforting 
message, and the low, sweet voice of the singer sing- 
ing her tender words of cheer : 


“ Fast falls the eventide, 
The darkness deepens — Lord, with me abide! ” 


How tenderly the words crept through the partly 
open doors to the listening ears that had longed so often 
for just this form of comfort when she so needed com- 
fort : 


“ Thou Saviour dear, 
It is not night if thou be near ! ” 


118 


AT BROWN'S. 


Sucli words were wliat she would have given worlds 
to have heard so many and many a time. But her 
daughter had other things to do, and she herself could 
not play. 

“ Father in heaven, the day is declining 1 ” 

Then, like a sweep of tender song-burst, rang the 
sweet voice through the silent room yonder — rang and 
floated in to the quiet woman in the straight-backed 
chair at the windows by the east : 

“ Praise God, from whom all blessings flow ; 

Praise him, all creatures here below ; 

Praise him above, ye heavenly host ; 

Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost ! ” 

The doxology ! Old and brave and unworn by the 
years and the voices that had sung it, it came to the 
waiting woman as if, indeed, it were the command of 
her life, as if there were nothing too hard in life, 
nothing too low or troublous that could not blend and 
mend itself in this grand old hymn to the Highest. 

Neither spoke as Ada entered the shadowy sitting- 
room ; there was something between them that left no 
room for words, something that touched each heart 
with the fullness of the silence to be filled only with 
the presence of Peace ! 


THESE TRIFLES! 


119 


CHAPTER YII. 

THESE TRIFLES! 

“ While the human in the minor 

Makes the harmony diviner.” — Mrs. Browning. 

u It does seem too bad,” Mrs. Brown said, when Ada 
spoke to her regarding the lack of educational advan- 
tages to be had, so far were the children about them 
from the village school, with a teacher in the tiny 
school-house knowing scarcely more than to carry the 
days through. “ It is too bad, Miss Ada, but there 
aint nobody special willing to come out here to teach 
jest them poor children of the families round here, an’ 
this Miss Ketcham, she is, may be, glad of the salary, 
but she aint got no love for the work nor the little ones. 
It does seem a pity that some one does not come who 
would really do them good. But ’taint easy to get 
teachers anyways here ; we take what we can get.” 

“ Of course,” Ada answered, gravely, having noth- 
ing new to offer at the moment, though her mind was 
busy with thoughts. 


120 


AT BROWN'S, 


And she was thinking of this as she and Miss Peer- 
ing drove down the hill on their way around Colby 
Pond, and so up to the new hotel back of the village, 
for the road around the pond led to the village and 
brought one out upon the hill to the north of the little 
dreary station where Ada met her first friend among 
the mountains. It was a delightful afternoon, though 
the wind blew with a hint of winter down through 
the hills and across the open where the tiny unpainted 
school-house was set among trees, with an open play- 
ground in front and high fences to shut off the farmers’ 
pastures at each side. The time was recess, and a 
dozen or so wild children were racing and shouting 
and squabbling on the grounds or extending their ad- 
ventures to the road-sides. There was nothing attract- 
ive about the school-house itself or the grounds where 
the children spent their tiihe between sessions, though 
these sessions consisted mostly of remarkable drawings 
on slates and an occasional caricatures in chalk on the 
blackboard under the unobservant eyes of the young 
teacher, who was more occupied in the novel hidden 
on her lap behind the desk, where childish e}^es could 
not pry, than in caring for the minds or hearts of her 
pupils. 

“ It is just too bad,” she said to Miss Peering as they 


THESE TRIFLES! 


121 


came in sight of the shouting children. “ It’s a shame 
for children in this century to grow up knowing noth- 
ing higher than the struggle for bread, nothing better 
than one day out of the week when there is a trifle less 
to do because so the law has said, not because the Lord 
has blessed it as a time for rest. It makes me pos- 
itively angry when I think of it, Clare ! They do what 
they can, they say, and set a committee to see that the 
children are not utterly neglected, because, forsooth, 
they send an incompetent teacher to look after them, 
when the children would doubtless be much better off 
without the indolent influence of an ignorant teacher. 
If the parents care enough perhaps they wonder that 
the children do not get on faster, and may be inquire 
a little into the advancement of their education ; but it 
is more likely the parents care less even than the teacher, 
and send the children only because the law demands 
that the coming man shall have a certain amount of 
education whether he will or no.” She laughed, and 
her friend joined her, though the subject was more 
pathetic than humorous. “ And I suppose one can do 
absolutely nothing about it,” added the girl, presently, 
letting the reins fall loosely over the back of the horse. 
“ Of course the committee holds firmly to its course, 
having little real interest anyway in the matter, 


122 


AT BROWN'S. 


probably thinking never of the wrong it is doing the 
children personally, caring more to hold its position 
than for its trust of young souls to be educated. It 
makes me sick when I think of it, Clare ; but what can 
I do?” 

“ I cannot see that you are responsible, anyway,” 
Miss Deering replied, beginning to see into the depth 
of her friend’s soul. “ If the committee and the 
parents don’t care I don’t see why you should.” 

She shrugged her shoulders and looked away to 
where the pond lay gleaming in the sunlight. 

“ Am I my brother’s keeper, Clare ? ” Ada repeated, 
softly, leaning forward the better to meet her friend’s 
dark eyes. “ May be not his keeper, Clare, but certainly 
if the Lord has placed these children in my way, and 
the wish in my heart to help them, there is something 
I must do, though now I cannot tell what it may be.” 

She drew the lines in and spoke to the willing horse. 
Two children had raced into the road in mad chase of 
each other, and paused for an instant, seeing the horse 
and girls coming toward them with the leisure only 
those had who were strangers to their hedged in lives, 
and then they scampered recklessly back behind the 
walls of the playground and peered with mischievous, 
though half-shy eyes out upon the new-comers. 


THESE TRIFLES! 


123 


Ada laughed merrily, appreciating to the full the 
childish curiosity and shyness, and drew the horse 
down to a stand, her face aglow with life and eager- 
ness almost as the children’s were, as she leaned out, 
calling softly in the voice that held a curious magnet- 
ism in its gentleness : 

“ Heiglio, girlie ! Come out here, you and your 
brother, and tell me why you are afraid and if we are 
on the right road to the village.” 

The boy shrank out of sight as suddenly as he had 
appeared, but the girl, after a shy murmur of laughter 
and backward glances toward her playmates, who were 
waiting as if turned into stone, every one of them, to 
see what would come of this strange encounter, ad- 
vanced slowlj", but with a glimmer of bravado in her 
shy eyes and on her freckled face. They were shy of 
strangers, and shrank from meeting them when it was 
possible ; but this pretty lady in her low carriage, with 
the fine horse nodding his head encouragingly at her, 
was somehow different from any who had asked of 
her or her companions any questions in passing along 
the road. She paused ere she reached the carriage 
and eyed the girls, one brown hand holding her calico 
apron to her lips, whether to hide their smiling or 
trembling Ada could not quite make sure, and 


124 


AT BROWN'S. 


waited for further developments before she ventured 
further. 

“ This is the road around the pond ?” Ada asked, in 
as matter-of-fact a tone as she would have asked for a 
stamp at the post-office window in the queer little 
village, and she smiled sunnily while her dark eyes 
searched the freckled face in the broad light of the 
afternoon. “We want to get to the village around 
the pond, and there are two roads down below, I see. 
Which is the right one ? To the left ? Thank you. 
What were you playing, you and your brother, when 
we came in sight? It looked lots of fun !” 

She was like a child herself in her frankness, and 
the smiling lips looked incapable of uttering an un- 
truth or saying cruel things for sport. The child had 
seen many a fair face pass along the road in summer 
and winter of her short life, and there had been smiles 
on many of them as they gave the children a glance 
in passing or a word of amused inquiry ; but this girl 
was different ; she looked as if she were capable of en- 
joying a race with all the zest of their younger bodies, 
and there was no scorn in the parted red lips or clear 
dark eyes. Involuntarily she let the corner of her 
apron drop from her lips and her hands fall with it, 
while her own lips parted in a brief glimmer of 


THESE TRIFLES! 


125 


smiling as she answered with quaint candor and a 
trace of defiance : 

“ He aint my brother ! That’s Jimmy Kane, wot 
lives down further in ther log-house by ther crossin’. 
Me an’ him was jest playin’ Tiddler’s ground, an’ I 
chased him outen ther yard. Tie can’t beat me 
runnin’.” 

There was an air of pride in this assertion that the 
girls enjoyed heartily. Ada even laughed with the 
freedom of a child as she asked, interestedly : 

“ Did you chase him well off of Tiddler’s ground ? 
And where has he gone? Surely you didn’t send 
him quite out of sight. Tiddler’s ground is fun ; I 
used to play it ever so much when I went to school 
first. Do you like to go to school ? ” 

“We don’t mind it much,” was the sage reply, 
given with the air of a philosopher as the small 
woman drew herself up to her full height, three feet, 
it might be, and surveyed her interlocutor with wide, 
calm eyes. “Miss Ketcham, she lets us do mostly 
as we like, an’ it’s fun, sometimes, gettin’ her mad 
with ther pictures on ther board. She reads a good 
deal when she aint bearin’ our lessons, an’ sometimes 
she sews fancy-work ; but she mostly reads, an’ then 
she aint thinkin’ o’ us, an’ we do as we please. Dick 


126 


AT BROWN'S. 


Weed, he drew a pictur’ o’ her an’ her feller — that’s 
Sile Green, out on ther other road — an’ when she 
looked up from her readin’ there was her an’ Sile on 
the board, a-standin’ shakin’ hands as chipper as two 
sticks, an’ Dick he was still as mice. But she flew 
into an awful fury, an’ give Dick a whalin’ fer it, for 
o’ course she found out who ’twas as done it. But 
we was sorry fer Dick, and give him a treat oflfen our 
lunches when school was out. Jimmy’s back there 
ahind o’ ther fence. He aint takin’ ter strangers, 
an’ so he run an’ hid when you come ’long. I’ll call 
him ef you want him ; he’ll come fer me.” 

Ada kept her face moderately straight for fear of 
wounding the child, but her eyes were brimming over 
with laughter at the quaint grown-up child. She 
dared not glance at her friend, for she knew if she 
did she must break into laughter, and that might lose 
her any influence she might win over the child 
standing in the road offering to fetch her friend 
should the ladies desire it, with an air of authority 
that would make impossible any reluctance on his 
part. 

“Of course we’d like to meet him,” Ada said, 
gravely; “but you needn’t bring him if he doesn’t 
want to come. What do you do in school when you 


THESE TRIFLES! 


127 


are not making pictures on the blackboard or up to 
some other mischief ? Of course you study. Do you 
like to read ? I wonder if you ever have any spelling- 
matches here. We used to have them in our school, 
and they were lots of help and fun, too. It didn’t 
take long to tell who would go down and who would 
stand to the end.” 

The child looked puzzled for an instant. Then she 
shook her tangled, frowzled head slowly but positively. 

“ISTo’m,” she said, standing her ground sturdily, 
although scarcely understanding this strange lady, “ I 
can read some — we had half a page this mornin’ 
’bout a cat an’ dorg, wot they did ; but we aint 
never had no spellin’, ’ceptin’ when Miss Ketcham 
she tells us ter go set down if we can’t read right off, 
an’ spell out the words till we can read ’em ’thout 
keepin’ her all day. We aint special fond o’ studyin’, 
anyways, an’ it’s lots more fun doin’ picters on our 
slates or makin’ faces ’cross at each other. We have 
a good time mostly, an’ she lets us be out-doors con- 
si d’rable, for she says it’s good for us an’ strengthens 
our lungs. We don’t mind it. It’s ever so much 
better ’n bein’ to home helpin’ wash or iron or 
suthin’ ther hull time. Ther boys don’t have to do 
that, o’ course, but we girls have a pretty hard time 


128 


AT BROWN'S. 


workin’ when tliar aint no school, so we’d rather any 
day come than stay to home.” 

“Yes,” Ada said; but her eyes were darkening. 
She was learning the ins and outs of mountain school- 
life so rapidly that it rather took her breath. Was it 
any wonder the farmers and wood-cutters and lumber- 
men and their families did not get on better, even 
with good wages half the year at least ? W as it any 
wonder the lives of the people were narrow, with no 
wider outlook, even at school, than spending the day 
scrawling pictures over a slate or spelling out the 
one-syllable words of the reading-lesson by them- 
selves rather than bother the teacher? Was it any 
wonder the thought of better things for them was 
almost beyond hope ? A swift tide of pity — pity for 
the womanhood dawning in the future for this child ; 
pity for the generation of mountaineers yet to come 
from these bits of humanity, starving unknowingly, 
with plenty just beyond their reach ; pity for the wasted 
lives and stinted souls to be met at the time for 
judgment, and required at the hands of their parents 
and teachers — and the color mounted richly to her 
cheeks and her eyes deepened intensely, to the marvel 
of the watching child rolling her apron-corner under 
her restless fingers. 


THESE TRIFLES! 


129 


“ We’ll take you with us some day, if you like to 
ride,” Ada said, bending swiftly toward the child, a 
dazzling smile on her lips. “ Your mother wouldn’t 
mind, would she ? ” 

“ Wont tell her ! ” was the startlingly prompt reply, 
as a shrewd look flashed across her small freckled 
face, and she closed one eye knowingly. “Don’t 
s’pose she’d mind ; hut I’ll go anyway.” 

“No, you’ll not!” and Ada was as startling in her 
prompt reply as the child had been. “You may ask 
your mother if she will let us take you, and we’ll 
take good care of you ; but if she says no, then we’ll 
have to wait till she says yes ; that’s all ! ” and her 
smile was as brilliant as before, though the child was 
struck with amazement at this strange development. 
“We’ll come for you Friday afternoon if it is clear, 
but you must be able to say that you have permission 
before we take you. What is your name ? Ellen ? 
Well, Ellen, good-bye ; we’ll not forget, and neither 
must you. Tell Jimmy he needn’t mind us next 
time ; we’d like to see him.” 

Ellen stood rooted to the spot, watching them until 
the curve in the road below shut them from her view ; 
then she started as a shrill voice whispered from be- 
hind the fence : 


130 


AT BROWN'S. 


“ Say, El, aint them swell, them ladies? Friends 
o’ yours, I s’pose ! ” 

“ Course they’s friends o’ mine ! ” retorted the girl, 
defiantly, turning swiftly to face her tormenter. 
“ They’s friends o’ mine, but yer needn’t be snoopin’ 
round hopin’ fer an introduction, Jimmy Kane, fer 
you wont get none. Them’s special friends, an’ I’m 
goin’ ridin’ with ’em Friday — ” 

“ Ho ! ” and the boy’s shout of sarcasm was echoed 
by the others crowding around the small freckled 
woman defending her rights. “Most likely you be 
goin’ with them ladies ! Most likely they’d take you ! 
They ken talk to yer, fer they all talk to us more or 
less ; but don’t give us none o’ sech talk as they’s goin’ 
ter take you ridin’ with ’em ! We ain’t greens 
mebby ye think ! ” 

The girl turned fiercely upon them in wrath at 
their disbelief in her statement. 

“ Et’s well ’nough fer you to be talkin’ that way — 
you, Jimmy Kane, an’ ther rest of you — but I tell 
what I know, an ye’d better b’lieve me, ef ye know 
what’s good fer ye ! ” 

What Ada would have said had she heard this 
small self-defender is hard to tell, but doubtless her 
heart would have been more sore than it was in spite 


THESE TRIFLES 1 


131 


of her laughter as they drove out of sight of the bar- 
ren little school-house set on the bare hill with its 
queer young life. 

“ It’s dreadful,” she said to Miss Deering, presently, 
as they grew more quiet. “ It’s just dreadful, Clare, 
and what to do is the worst of it. I didn’t think it 
was so hard till this child came out and proved, 
beyond doubting, the life they live. Washing and 
ironing at home, or scribbling slates at school, and 
learning to scorn restraint. But I shall find some 
way, Clare, I must find some way. I couldn’t rest 
till I can do something for them.” 

“ But did you ever hear such a child?” demanded 
Miss Deering, again breaking into laughter. “If 
ever there was humanity in school- children there is 
in that child. And the air when she asked, so self-satis- 
fiedly, if yon desired Jimmy. It is dreadful, I know, 
but there is enough in that one child to make or mar 
more lives than just her own.” 

“Yes,” Ada said, and the shadow deepened in her 
eyes and she lifted her troubled face to this friend in 
her sore perplexity ; “ and I feel somehow as if it is 
in my power to help her make or mar her own 
life, and yet I cannot find the way nor think how it 
may be.” 


132 


AT BROWN'S. 


“ But you gave her a pretty thorough lesson in de- 
ception when you took her up so sharply in her dec- 
laration of going witli us whether her mother was 
willing or not. I think she was thunderstruck, if 
such an expression is allowable. Her eyes grew wide 
as possible, and even her lips parted when you declared 
so positively that she should do nothing of the sort ! ” 
“ I wonder how many others there are like her ? ” 
mused Ada, gravely, this touch of humanity darkening 
even the beauty of that sunny afternoon and the wild- 
ness of the road along which they were passing. “ It 
is terrible at times to realize that there is so much 
wrong and sorrow in the world even shadowing child- 
hood, and to sort of feel responsible for it.” 

“ But there is no reason why you should feel re- 
sponsible for it,” Miss Deering protested, wishing to 
bring the gentle girl at her side back to the sunny 
side of life that seemed meant for her. “Don’t 
worry any more, Miss Ada ; it’ll come right some 
way ; every thing comes right some way in the end ! ” 
“ I know ; ” and Ada smiled with swift apprecia- 
tion of these few words of sympathy, hard, she knew, 
for the girl to utter even to her. “You’re a sweet- 
comforter, anyway, Clare Deering, and I might try to 
make your afternoon more pleasant than in mourning 


THESE TRIFLES! 


133 


for my inability to carry out some wish of mine. 
Look at the water over there ; how the wind ruffles it 
in a broad sweep, and inshore it lies like a mirror 
without a wave lifting the surface ! ” 

“ And we’re coming out into the village road,” 
added Miss Deering. “ That’s the home mountain, 
though you’d never guess it if you were not told, it 
looks so different from this side ; and the first turn 
takes you to the Ampersand. You’ll like the woods, 
I am sure, they are ever so thick, though just on the 
edge at first are the fields where the trees were 
burned two years ago, leaving these dreary stumps. 
It’s a regular story to look at those stumps of what 
were giant trees and imagine the fierce fire that must 
have come to destroy them, every one. Even the 
rails of the fences here and there are burned black, 
and in some places gone altogether. They never 
make improvements here, they say ; things go on as 
they have gone on for years and years. The sons do 
as the fathers do and have done, and so the world in 
the wilderness remains a world of wilderness.” 

She laughed at her complicated speech, and was 
gladdened by seeing the shadow lifted from her 
friend’s face. 

“ I have a horror of forest fires,” Ada said. 


134 


AT BROWN'S. 


shuddering as slie followed with her eyes the line of 
blackened stubble where the stumps of trees rose at 
different heights, ragged and charred and torn like 
the limbs of those dead on a battle-field. “ There is 
something terrible to me about such a thing.” 

Miss Deering laughed again. 

“ They make fun of me at the sanatorium,” she said, 
a slow flush coming into the pure, pale face, “ because 
I said once I should like Baker to be a volcanic 
mountain and give us illuminations at night. What a 
grand thing it would be, what a fearful sight it would 
be ! And yet I believe just that would suit my nature 
at times when I scarcely know myself what I am or 
want to be. I believe I am by nature as fierce and 
wild as any savage of the forest or wilderness,” she 
added, and her laughter was broken witli a little tre- 
mor as she looked away to the charred slope to escape 
the searching eyes of her friend. “ No one under- 
stands me ; I scarcely understand myself.” 

Ada laughed too, but her laughter was tender, and 
the hand she laid lightly over the slender fingers of 
the other girl was soft and warm and true of touch as 
was the heart throbbing for the righting of the 
world’s wrongs so far as lay in her frail power. 

“You may laugh all you choose, Clare,” she said — 


THESE TRIFLES! 


135 


and the horse was taking his own sweet will along 
the rugged, narrow road — “ but I believe I understand, 
or begin to understand, you ; and there is One who 
could never fail to know to the least degree the life 
and soul and desires of every created thing in his 
world. ‘Even the hairs of our head,’ Clare — that 
surely means a wonder of thought and knowledge so 
high above us we could never comprehend it in its 
magnitude. But it is so restful at times, especially 
when one is discouraged and disappointed in the ac- 
complishing of any work, to feel sure that he does 
know how much we tried and want to do.” 

Miss Deering laughed, to hide any deeper feeling, 
and turned the subject swiftly, for even to this gentle 
friend she could not yet lay bare the inner life and 
longing of her soul. 

“Now, these are the woods, or the beginning of 
them, that I knew you would like,” she said, as they 
entered the deeper shadow of the road. “ And wait 
till you see the lake and realize that in winter we 
drive across it with as heavy a load as the horses will 
draw ; then you will begin to realize what winter is 
here in the wilderness. And that is the Amper- 
sand,” she continued, as they came out into a clearing 
at the foot of the hotel hill, and the lake lay to the 


136 


AT BROWN'S. 


left far down between the bills, its shores banked 
with pines. “ The red walls show off magnificently 
with the snow over the lake and hills ; it is even 
prettier then than now, with the green around it. 
And that is Miller’s Hotel,” went on this laughing 
guide, with a swift glance of merriment toward her 
companion — “that green building across the lake. 
And away down there — see — that is the Ampersand 
Mountain, from which this hotel is named. I’m a 
regular guide-book ! ” she added, gayly ; “ but I’ve 
seen it all so often I know it by heart.” 

“ It’s surely nice to have a companion who knows 
something about the place and the roads and the 
special features,” Ada said, also laughing merrily, 
her sunny self again. “I shall learn it all before I 
leave, I suppose.” 

“ Of course,” said her matter-of-fact companion. 
“And you must go through the hotel sometime, if 
you don’t want to to-day, for it is well worth see- 
ing, and they are very courteous about showing one 
through. You go right in the office from the piazza, 
and that gives one an idea of the magnificence of the 
building. It is a fine room, with main staircase going 
up from it, and the open fire-places and wide win- 
dows that give such a grand view of the lake and 





























































































AN ADIRONDACK LAKE 





THESE TRIFLES l 


137 


mountians. I’ve been through more than once, and 
even climbed up to the tower by way of a ladder be- 
fore it was finished ! ” 

“No one can say you leave the Adirondacks with- 
out knowing them ! ” Ada said, merrily. “ I always 
so hate to ask questions that I often go without 
knowing much that would be delightful.” 

“ O, they generally point out the special features,” 
Miss Deering said, calmly ; “ you don’t have to ask 
many questions. If they think you’re really inter- 
ested they are nicer, of course. And down here is 
where they have the toboggan slide,” she continued, 
as they drove slowly around the front of the building 
and looked down to the lake from the sheer slope at 
their feet. “ And they keep a cleared space — circles 
generally — for the skaters when the snow covers the 
ice too deeply to be swept away. And they have 
racing down the lake, too, sometimes, when the ice is 
safe. They have every attraction, you see ; ” and she 
laughed at her own guide-book-sounding conversa- 
tion. “ One dollar for that ! ” she added, with so 
business-like an air that Ada shook with laughter. 
“ But it’s sort of scary, sometimes,” she went on, as 
they turned the corner of the building and faced the 
woods with the lake behind them, “to drive across 


138 


AT BROWN'S. 


tlie lake when the ice cracks and the water comes 
over the surface, as sometimes it does around the 
edges. We drove around up the lake quite a little way 
last winter, and the runners of the sleigh sank out of 
sight in the water. The sleigh tipped, too, awfully, 
and we all wanted to scream — or I did, for one — and 
there wasn’t much fun about it while it lasted. 

“ But, after all,” she said, as the horse was picking 
his way carefully down the steep curve of the drive 
where the roads met, “ after all, it’s the people who 
will interest you. Wait till you know more of the 
people. Life is so strange up here, and human nat- 
ure so human-natured ” — she hesitated over the coin- 
ing of this w^ord — “ that it proves the world is the 
world wherever you are, in the wilderness as well as 
the city. The Adirondacks, as mountains, are mag- 
nificent ; the people, as humanity, are perfect ! ” 

“ Even that child standing her ground at the school- 
yard ! ” Ada added, softly, with an arch smile for this 
pleasant friend. 

“Yes, even she!” answered Miss Deering, calmly, 
“ It’s human nature ; you can’t change that.” 

“ But you can elevate it,” was the soft reply, as 
they turned along the road they had come through 
the woods and beside the stricken forest. 


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139 


CHAPTER VIII. 

A CANVAS. 

“And his life, though in all things so gifted and skilled, 

"Was, at best, but a promise which nothing fulfilled.” 

— Owen Meredith. 

Ada was painting. She wore a plain black dress, 
with loose sleeves gathered at the wrist, and an apron 
that held the straight dress at the waist. She was 
singing softly and unconsciously to herself as she 
worked, putting in the colors with a steady, careful 
hand, stopping now and then the better to study the 
effects of shadow on the opposite mountains ; for she 
had been working on a picture of those mountains 
for two or three days, doing her work thoroughly 
because painstaking and without haste. 

The afternoon was perfect, and the mountains stood 
distinctly one against the other, perfect in rugged 
outline, hinting at mystery in the broken surface 
facing her window. "Whiteface had caught more 
snow on its lifted peak, rising back of the others with 
a majesty in its higher loneliness. The background 


140 


AT BROWN'S. 


of the heavens was exquisite, and the girl, working 
partly from memory, partly from these glimpses she 
paused to catch, was doing even better than she had 
hoped. 

Her heart was light as she touched the canvas with 
her careful brush, and her song, though broken by 
preoccupied thoughts, proved her happiness. She 
was in the mountains for her health, to be sure, but 
she told her father and friends, laughing with a sad 
little ring in the low voice, that she could not stay 
even in the mountains for six whole months without 
some work to do, and if she should leave her beloved 
work for so long a time there would be much of it 
she would certainly forget ; so she brought her can- 
vas and her colors and devoted a part of every day 
to careful work ; and it brought her quietness of mind 
and heart many a time when her thoughts would re- 
turn to the happy life at home before the shadow of 
death had laid its sorrow upon them. She was im- 
proving, too, in her art. Her watchful eyes caught 
colors and shades and effects in the silence of the hills 
with so few friends to break in upon her. She found 
something new to store in her mind every day, every 
time she went in the outer world ; and even the home- 
life around her was unconsciously shaping thought 


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141 


and character that must influence her own life, must 
influence her life-work, must shadow with its sadness 
and bitterness the colors she set on her canvas. She 
was learning much in the quietness of this mountain 
life in the midst of this strange family and her one 
friend outside. Still she sang as she worked that early 
afternoon, thinking of her home-life, of her friend, 
of the unrecognized nobility of the life of her hostess, 
and of the children in the tiny school-house beyond, 
building their lives and characters they knew not 
how ; and an hour had slipped past quickly without 
her notice, though the small clock on the mantel was 
ticking industriously at the minutes. 

u After all, life is a canvas itself,” she said, pres- 
ently, to herself, pausing to note the effect of a warmer 
touch of purple on the distance of the lower range 
where Catamount held guard, “ and we ourselves put 
in the colors, knowingly or unknowingly, and finish 
it with the sunset, whether beautiful with promise of 
a gladder morrow or boding darkness, depending on 
the faithfulness of the work we do. There are mount- 
ains in life, too — Whitefaces and Marcys and Macken- 
zies — grand uplifts of nature with the higher touch 
of an atmosphere above the valleys. But who can 
catch to perfection the lights on their faces, after all ? 


142 


AT BROWN'S. 


Who can read the mysteries set in their hearts for 
the reading of the Creator alone ? Who can spread 
a canvas — just a foot or two at best — and boast of a 
perfect conception of the life lifted leagues above 
us ? ” 

She was smiling over her fit of moralizing, with 
her brush held motionless as her eyes sought the mys- 
tery and beauty of the hills out toward the east, when 
a light tap came upon her door, and she, still smiling, 
called her soft invitation to enter. Mrs. Brown came 
in at her bidding, almost a flush of pleasure on her 
face. 

“ It’s a friend of yours,” she said, pausing in the 
door-way as she saw the girl’s occupation. “ He 
come in on the train this noon, an’ says lie’s an old 
friend of yours and wdslies to see you.” 

The brush and palette went down ; the girl rose 
quickly, a warm flush coming into her face. 

“ And his name — ” She was aglow with pleasur- 
able excitement. A friend from her home, any one, 
no matter whom, would have been welcome ; but she 
was quite certain who this friend was without asking 
the faltering question. 

Mrs. Brown hesitated a moment ; the name was 
uncommon to her ; it was not an easy name to speak. 


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143 


“ Ledyard — yes, Arthur Ledyard ; that’s the 
name, Miss Ada. lie told me, but he give me this 
card for you, too. He said your father wished 
him to call upon you during his stay here. He’s only 
here for a week or so, he said. I am glad he has 
come.” 

Ada had her apron off and lightly brushed her hair 
up from her forehead, where it had strayed during 
her painting. She turned to the quiet woman utter- 
ing these slow words of pleasure for her with a smile 
of ready sympathy. 

“ You are so good to me, Mrs. Brown ! How can 
I ever thank you for what you have been to me ? Even 
this old friend of mine — and we are old friends, for 
we have lived next door to each other since we were 
born — even he, with the many kind acts of his life, 
has not been to me what you have been during these 
few days I have been with you.” She patted gently 
one of the stiff hands hanging down at the woman’s 
side and turned with her from the room. She laughed 
softly as they went down the stairs together, and her 
voice in its melody reached her friend ere she herself 
appeared in the low door-way, her hands extended, 
her lifted face warm with welcome. 

“ This is good of you, Arthur,” she said, and her 


144 


AT BR0W2PS. 


hands were lying warmly in his. u They are all so 
kind to me here, but — you are from home — ” 

“ Yes,” he said, vaguely, scarcely knowing what he 
did say as he searched the sweet face for the tired 
look he had been so certain he would find stamped 
upon it even with her brave-hearted effort to appear 
always happy wherever she might be, the wish to 
prove that the best of life lay in our holding the 
sweetness around the lips in spite of pain upon the 
heart. “ I hardly expected to find you looking so 
well and happy away from home and friends, Ada.” 

There was covert reproach in his words and voice, 
finding no sign of weariness upon the tender, proud 
young face. The girl felt the reproach, and drew 
her hands away gently as she walked forward into the 
room. She might have been pained at the -words first 
uttered by this old friend had she not known him 
so well. All her life these small traces of a narrow 
nature in this otherwise sunny- tempered friend had 
troubled her broad view of life and human nature, 
and she had done what she could to remove them or 
help him to rid himself of them. He was such a 
charming young fellow, with friends on every hand, 
won by his gay good nature and really brilliant wit, with 
advantages and capabilities to be almost any thing he 


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145 


would in life, to make of himself what he would, 
using his gifts and graces toward a noble end ; but 
he let slip with this easy good nature so many oppor- 
tunities, let go his hold of any chance that was brought 
to his very feet, that she felt instinctively in the end 
his canvas would show brilliant coloring with no 
method, no groundwork, no careful filling in — noth- 
ing but brave outlines and broken beauty of form. 
The thoughts of her hour at her painting came back 
to her with new significance as she crossed the few 
feet between her and the chair at the window, but she 
was almost unconsciously setting her friend on the 
canvas of life after the quaint fashion of her reason- 
ing. She seated herself very quietly, looking up at 
him as he, following her, passed beside her chair, his 
eyes upon her grave young face. 

“ Sit down, Arthur,” she said, gently. “ Your 
home face brings back so distinctly the dear old places ! 
How is father, in his lonely life, now no one — ” 

He took up the faltering words with kindly thought. 
He sat down opposite her, still with that strange 
searching of the quiet, tender face, under its ruffled 
chestnut hair, the soft lines and the pallor set off by 
the dead black of her gown. But the lips were 

warmly red with new life, and there was a depth 
10 


146 


AT BROWN'S. 


that had grown in the dark eyes since she left her home 
with its sad memories. He had never quite under- 
stood her, and now he understood her less than ever 
before in his life. 

“Your father is doing very well, Ada,” he said, 
to leave no awkward pause between her broken ques- 
tion and his answer. “ He is, of course, anxious to 
know how you really are, and requested me to 
come at once upon my arrival here and see for my- 
self and let him know, for we all remember your 
willingness to put the brightest side to any thing, 
and of course you would never say if you were 
breaking your heart with homesickness.” He laughed 
easily, and she joined him. “ I am glad, indeed, 
to tind that you are better than you were on leav- 
ing home, Ada. Ho, I must even tell the truth,” 
and again he laughed, and his laughter was pleasant 
to hear, “ and say I am surprised to find you far bet- 
ter than I expected. You look certainly as if the 
wilderness air agrees with you. Your lips are as red, 
truly, as those of the story-book princess that you 
used to say you envied for the color of her mouth. 
Do you remember ? And I am sure your eyes haven’t 
yet lost their color from too much weeping.” 

She laughed and met his gaze frankly. 


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147 


“ You haven’t altered, either,” she said, “ Arthur. 
Two weeks seem to me a short time for great 
changes. Did you expect to find me weeping like 
Mariana, unwilling to be comforted ? I have a great 
deal here to make life pleasant. Mrs. Brown is very 
good to me. It is like a page out of a book to live 
here even one day, Arthur.” 

“And you thoroughly enjoy that,” he said. “I 
remember your failings better than your graces, Ada.” 

“ And you,” she asked, gently, her eyes growing 
keen in their kindness, wishing to discover some touch 
of stronger character in this friend — “ what have you 
been doing since I left, Arthur ? Have you finished 
the plan of the war-ship yet, or taken Marie to the 
Cyclorama, as you promised to do six weeks ago ? ” 
She was laughing, for she would not wound the 
young man, fearing by so doing she might help him 
to give up all endeavor. A flush came slowly into 
his fair face, though he joined in her laughter, shak- 
ing his head quite unconcernedly. 

“ You know what I am, Ada,” he said ; “ how can 
you ask such a question, expecting certainly a nega- 
tive reply ? I believe, though, if I had been born 
poor as poverty, like some fellows — Horace Graham, 
for instance — I might have made something of my 


148 


AT BROWN'S. 


life. He’s a grand fellow, Ada ! He’ll be something, 
too, some day. What do you think he is at ? — though 
may be you know ! Why, plodding for all he is worth 
at those dull law-books, studying nights when he 
ought to forget the days he spends at the store, de- 
termined, he says, to make of his life the best and 
highest he can. He doesn’t say much, though ; he’s 
like you for that. One would never know what you 
are striving at if one didn’t absolutely catch you at it 
on the sly sometime. He doesn’t really study half 
the night, though, as some fellows foolishly do ; he 
knows too much fQr that. Hot he ! And I say that’s 
where he is going to win. He doesn’t kill himself at 
the beginning by that sort of tiling, but gives the 
days to the store and just part of the evening to this 
study. He doesn’t sit up late, either. What are you 
doing now, Ada? Setting the world on fire with 
some great painting ? I know your desire, you see. 
The low rounds of the ladder will never do for you ; 
you will get up higher if you have to crawl and cling, 
as the sailors do to the masts when the ship is sink- 
ing. Why haven’t I half the ambition that you and 
Horace have ? There is some reason for his plodding, 
but you do it purely because you think you ought to 
polish up any talent you may possess. I can’t for 


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149 


the life of me see why you should, when you have 
every thing any reasonable girl could wish. Your 
father’s as rich as mine, and you’ll be richer some da} r , 
for you have no brothers or sisters to divide with, as 
I have. How is it, Ada ? I wish you’d tell me. I 
don’t want to feel that my two dearest friends are 
leaving me in the lurch when the world is broad and 
there ought to be gifts enough for all, and uses for 
the gifts. Is there a grace of knowledge that goes 
with special talents, Ada ? Or do you have fairies 
whisper to you nights what to do and how to go 
about it ? ” 

There was a wistfulness under his light words and 
laughter that made the low voice very gentle and 
sweet in answering, for she wished — how she wished ! 
— to set these careless feet in some one of the paths 
open before him, with his mind set on accomplishing 
something in life — to make something out of his 
many talents. 

“ There isn’t any special knowledge or old-time 
fairies, Arthur,” she said, meeting his eyes steadily. 
“ It’s just simply hard, grinding determination to do 
what you wish, no matter how difficult it may look, 
no matter how many discouragements or failures you 
have from the start. That is what the world calls 


150 


AT BROWN'S. 


genius, and what is only strength of character to a 
greater or less degree, as the work will prove. Every 
body has some sort of gift, you know, if it’s only the 
talent of talking as you talk ; but it’s the strength of 
the will, the desire to make of life the best in one’s 
power, the wish to return the talents doubled instead 
of rusted with the ground where they were buried, 
that makes all the difference. Horace Graham has 
the gift, and he knows it — it is only the foolish who 
declare they have not the gift they know perfectly 
well they possess — and in spite of the fact that he 
has to work at something that will bring him in his 
board and living while he studies for higher work, 
yet he has chosen to be, in spite of hardships, what 
he knows he can be if he will. I have some talent for 
painting; it has been cultivated to the utmost at 
home ; I have made myself sit at my easel many a 
day when I would so much rather go to the park or 
the lake or anywhere rather than up in that studio, 
and now it has grown easier — has grown so much a 
habit that I love it. I love just that set time for work, 
just that much work to be done, and done the best that 
is in my power, and I would not for forty parks or 
lakes or careless times give up the work that is to fit 
me for other work when the time shall come ; that 


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151 


will show by its excellence or its carelessness whether 
I have or have not put to good use the one talent in 
my hands. You know me, Arthur, and though ever 
so many people would say it is a silly pride that puts 
such ideas into my head you know otherwise. I 
love my work, but I would do it, I firmly believe, as 
faithfully as I do now if I absolutely hated it, because 
it is given into ny T hands to do. I don’t hate it; I 
believe it is almost never that one hates or even dis- 
likes any talent in their power, no matter how hard 
they may have to work at it ; but I would do it in 
any event.” 

He knew she would. He knew her well enough 
for that. Her strength of character had always been 
his wonder and admiration from the time he and she 
were old enough to understand life at all. The 
strength under the tender lines of the mouth, the 
power in the steady dark eyes, the brave soul that 
lifted its burdens uncomplainingly — all these proved 
the truth of her words. A sense of his own small- 
ness beside this girl’s brave fight to do to the utmost 
what was given her to do came upon him, and the 
knowledge sent a harsh tone to his voice when next he 
spoke. 

“ You and Graham are friends who will be proud 


152 


AT BROWN'S. 


of each other,” he said with a bitter laugh. “ I 
wonder you have kept friends with me for so long, 
Ada, knowing my utter inability to make any thing 
wonderful out of my life.” 

It was unjust, and he knew it ; but there was a sting 
in her words, full of truth as they were, that brought 
his worst nature to the surface. A warm color came 
to her cheeks and a flash in the steady eyes as she 
said, quietly, with a touch of womanly pride that 
proved how hurt she was, “ You can make more of 
your life than any one I know ; ” and his eyes fell 
before the truth in hers. “ I wish I had half your 
talents, Arthur Ledyard. Do you think I would 
sit down doing nothing rather than prove that a 
noble will is a noble life ? Mr. Graham’s life will 
be noble if he does no more than plead at the bar 
all his life, because he has struggled to win even 
that. If working against poverty and against time 
makes men, working with the power of unlimited 
money and unlimited time — so long as life lasts — 
should make still braver men. It isn’t poverty that 
proves men, it is the manhood asserting itself. 
If money is power, the might that goes with money 
and education and a broad charity must be almost 
limitless.” 


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153 


“ And even here in the wilderness we are at it 
again,” said her companion, laughing now heartily. 
“ We’re always at it, Ada. I come to you mourning 
the weakness of men, and you prove their might with- 
out an instant’s hesitation. If I had your character I 
might be something.” 

“ You have the ability to mount a thousand times 
higher than I,” said Ada, quickly. Then she changed 
the subject with her woman’s tact, not wishing to say 
too much. 

“ Y ou’re up for hunting, I suppose, Arthur ? There 
are parties out on the opposite mountain nearly every 
day. You will have no trouble to find good guides 
in the village. How many are there in your party, 
for of course you did not come alone ? ” 

“ Half a dozen of us,” answered her friend, his 
mind still on their conversation, though he grasped 
eagerly at this chance to talk of more interesting 
things than the weakness or strength of characters. 
“ There’s Ned Morris, Rob Maynard, Ellard Smith, 
Dick Macallister — O, you know our set, Ada! We’re 
here only for a week or so, and intend to have a good 
time, but I’ll run in — if I may — every once in a 
while. I promised your father to sort of watch over 
you while I am here, you know.” 


154 


AT BROWN'S. 


She nodded and langlied. 

“Yes, I know,” she said. “You have watched 
over me ever since we were big enough to quarrel 
and make up, haven’t you, Arthur? Papa always 
has the greatest confidence in your ability to take care 
of me.” 

“ And haven’t you ? ” demanded the young man, 
with some indignation. “I’m sure I nearly broke 
my arm once in breaking Joe Barbour’s head for say- 
ing you had a temper of your own. Have you for- 
gotten that, Miss Ada ? ” 

She laughed, and rose as he rose, and touched his 
arm with her light, soft fingers for one moment. 

“ You are as good as a brother, Arthur, and always 
defended me grandly ! The boys really treated me 
witli special respect after they knew you would have 
it out with them if they didn’t. I miss you very 
much up here.” 

“ Do you, truly, Ada ? ” There was a light on his 
face that gave it a new expression. “ It’s good of 
you to say that. And do you honestly have a good 
time here ? I can scarcely conceive how, with noth- 
ing going on from one day to the next — not even the 
consolation of hunting — and just to live from one 
day on.” 


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155 


“ O, I do mncli more than simply live,” Ada an- 
swered, gayly, her frank eyes meeting his. “ I have 
a dear little friend down below here, and we drive 
together and walk together and really have the finest 
times yon can imagine, Arthur Ledyard. And then 
there is so much to do and see and hear. Ev'ery 
thing is so new, you know, and every one wants to 
make you have a good time. The people here in the 
house are as kind as kind can be to me ; I wish you 
could know Mrs. Brown. If ever there was a noble 
woman she is one.” 

“ 6 If,’ Ada ? I thought there was no doubt about 
the nobility of women and men if they would be no- 
ble. This is heresy you are talking ! ” 

“ You understand what I mean, Arthur. She is 
honestly a woman to be proud of. There is some- 
thing wonderful to me in her brave silence through a 
great deal of sorrow. You’d like her, Arthur.” 

“ I always do like your friends,” he made answer, 
gayly. “ I appreciate your taste, you see.” 

“ And you’d like my new friend down at the sana- 
torium,” she added, ignoring this last remark. “ She 
is very sweet, Arthur, and tall and dark, with lips 
redder than my princess of the fairy story. But some 
way there is something so frank and childishly daring 


156 


AT BROWN'S. 


about her I am afraid for her happiness. She be- 
lieves all that any one says to her, although she is not 
given to caring for many people. I am growing fond 
of her ; by and by I think I shall love her.” 

“ And she is educated up to your standard, I sup- 
pose ? ” 

“No;” a slow flush came into the cool cheeks. She 
could not tell him that the girl in reality had little 
education so far as books went, though she was quick 
to catch the thoughts of others. “ You seem to have 
the opinion that I consider myself a great mogul, or 
something of that sort, Arthur.” She laughed and 
shook her head. “ My friend will make a charming 
woman ; she will love deeply and be loved, but there 
is a depth to her character that makes her also capa- 
ble of intense suffering. That goes with deep nat- 
ures, you know, and is the one thing so sad about 
them, I think.” 

“ Don’t moralize, Ada, don’t ! ” he said, laughing, 
turning from her toward the door. “ I am going 
now. Shall I have the pleasure of meeting this won- 
derful friend of yours during my stay? ” 

“ I — don’t kfiow,” she answered, slowly, taking the 
matter much more seriously than he intended. “ She 
is peculiar, Arthur, and she doesn’t like strangers — ” 


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157 


“ Then you came to her as an angel,” he remarked, 
with an amused laugh. “ You came to her in her 
dreams before you appeared before her in reality. I 
used to tell you — do you remember ? — that you were 
an angel or — a demon ! ” 

There was no answering laughter in her eyes or on her 
lips. Why would he always joke upon subjects so near 
her heart ? Why would he always misunderstand her ? 

“ I am not an angel,” she said, gently, “ Arthur, 
and I hope I am not the other either. I think, think- 
ing of it, that you may not meet my friend. You 
could make her very unhappy with your jesting, and 
I will not have her wounded.” 

“O!” he turned the handle of the door and looked 
down upon her standing at his side, she so small, he 
in the pride of his six feet and his broad shoulders. 
“ It is too bad I fall so far short of your wishes for 
me, Ada. I wonder you cannot make me over as 
you do all else you set about doing.” 

She laughed now. Where was the use in feeling 
hurt or indignant at him for misconstruing her words ? 
He was so good-natured, so big and strong and alto- 
gether pleasant, why not take him as he was and give 
up all hope of making more of him than he was will- 
ing to make of himself ? 


158 


AT BROWN'S. 


“ The days of the fairies, are gone,” she said ; u we 
have to be our own fairies or do without, Arthur. It 
was good of you to come to me at once. I write to 
father to-night, and will tell him of your prompt 
attendance upon his wishes.” 

He laughed too. It was good to have her j ust the 
merry girl and not the thinking woman. He reached 
out his strong hand, and she laid her own small fingers 
within it frankly, as she had always done. 

“I shall write to him to-night also,” he said, “and 
can tell him what a proud young creature his daugh- 
ter is growing among the hills. Don’t forget him — 
and us — in your new friend, though.” 

“ You know,” she said, quietly, though there was a 
smile on her lips, “ that I never forget one friend 
from having gained another, Arthur. I shall be glad 
always to have you come to see me, and I wish you 
luck over on the mountain with the boys.” 

“ Thank you,” he said, laughing. “ Good-bye for the 
day at least, Ada. You will have finished your pict- 
ure when I come next time, I suppose, and I shall 
expect to see it. Your first piece of work among the 
Adirondacks will be well worth criticising, I have no 
doubt.” 

“ You should be kind in parting,” she said, merrily 


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159 


as lie had spoken. “ You should not say such things, 
Arthur Ledyard ! ” 

“No?” he queried, lightly. “ Well, there is still 
one comfort left for me, Ada ; some day I may prove 
myself to your liking. There’s no such word as ‘ fail ’ 
in the dictionary, you know ! ” 

She nodded and laughed, and the door was shut and 
he was gone, and she was back at her canvas, and the 
lights on the mountains were still broad and deep and 
tender. 


160 


AT BROWN'S. 


CHAPTEE IX. 

TAKEN OUT OF HER HANDS. 

“There’s room here for the weakest man alive 
To live and die ; — there’s room, too, I repeat, 

For all the strongest to live well and strive, 

Their own way, by their individual heat.” 

— Casa Guidi Windows. 

“ I think, thinking of it, that you may not meet 
my friend. You could make her very unhappy with 
your jesting, and I will not have her wounded.” 

Arthur Ledyard, a favorite in society in the city and 
wherever he went, brilliant, witty, handsome, was un- 
comfortably and unpleasantly haunted by the girl’s 
quiet words, although he had turned them into jesting. 
He had never before been denied any acquaintance he 
might desire, and Ada’s refusal to allow him to meet 
her friend was like a sharp wound to his vanity. 
There was something about the girl herself, her quiet 
womanliness, her proud, independent spirit, her high 
standard of honor, her frank belief that he was wasting 
his life, and her efforts to win him higher ; all these 


TAKEN OUT OF HER HANDS. 


161 


had equally roused his admiration and resentment, for 
he could not fail to appreciate her any more than he 
could help being hurt by her disbelief in his manliness. 

From the time they were old enough to argue, to 
have even in a slight degree an idea of life, it had been 
her part to direct his careless, brilliant spirit and 
bring it to a higher level for the world’s work, to bring 
him up to a level with her high ambition for herself, 
to prove to him what was demanded of our lives and 
our talents, though her ideas were crude and no sor- 
row had touched and strengthened her character. 
They agreed now, being older, seeing the folly of rash 
words, as a boy and girl must see as they grow older, 
as a man and woman feel instinctively they must agree 
to the extent of politeness and old-time friendship, even 
though the inner life of one parts widely from that of 
the other ; and though, as to-day, when the subject 
came up between them, she must stand to her colors, 
he must defend himself with his jesting, yet they both 
understood perfectly that each must shape the coming 
years for himself and herself, though the one might 
rise and the other sink with the power or lack of power. 
Her life was before him from its infancy, from the 
time he helped her walk, when his own steps were un- 
steady, till now, with her feet set firmly on the threshold 
ii 


162 


AT BROWN'S. 


of womanhood and his crossing into the responsi- 
bilities and powers of manhood. And her life, in spite 
of its many errors, its many defeats, its many disap- 
pointments, was like a book for his reading and the 
proof that life is what we make it, given into onr 
hands by a love that would have ns prove our own 
souls and their height. 

Still, this friend of his was not one to set her will 
before the world at any and every opportunity. You 
might meet her in a crowd and pass her by with sim- 
ply a thought of the sweetness and gentleness of the 
pale face lighted by its dark eves, and there would be 
no hint of the depth and height and struggle of her 
soul to gain its hold of the talent laid in its power ; 
there would be not a word laying claim to a broader 
reach of life than any other in the throng, than any 
other of the laughing, care-free, pleasure-seeking lives 
around. She was shy to that extent. She was a 
woman down to the grace of her dress and the sweet- 
ness of her manner. One must catch her unawares, 
or draw her out with sympathetic words to learn what 
she really was. Iler name was not unknown among 
artists. Among her friends her talent was either ap- 
preciated, and met with sincere words of praise, or it 
was given the light words of flattery considered due 


TAKEN OUT OF HER HANDS. 


163 


a young and pretty woman with wealth at her com- 
mand, who was bent on amusing herself and proving 
the worth of a whim. She knew whose words were 
honest and whose were not. Her words to some 
proved the depth they had guessed at, while her words 
to the others left them free to judge as they would. 
It was only those granted her closest friendship who 
knew to the full the sweetness and purity of her char- 
acter. 

Arthur Ledyard was thinking of all this as he 
w r alked back to the village on leaving his friend. And 
he was puzzling over the strangeness of life, the wide 
difference in natures, the subtle height of grace granted 
to women but never attained by men, the power a true 
woman must always hold on the life of a man ; and his 
face was more grave, perhaps, than many had ever 
seen it in his brilliant life. Still, she was only one 
girl out of hundreds of his acquaintance. There were 
other girls, and he could easily count them, who were 
blessed with more beauty, with a more fascinating 
sweetness of voice and manner and glance, with all 
the thousand and one unsolved arts set for the winning 
of friends. She was but one out of hundreds whom he 
did not know, whom he would never know, doubtless ; 
and yet he believed in her nobility and purity and 


164 


AT BROWN'S. 


sweetness as he could never bring himself to believe 
in those other women with their subtleties and arts. 
She w r as frank, and her eyes w r ere steady and her gen- 
tle dignity always to be depended upon. Her quiet 
rebuke given with those searching, truthful eyes had 
hushed many false words on the lips of her friends ; 
her low, sweet voice had given answers to reckless 
words as few would guess. There was a purity about 
her that would lift life higher in those who knew her. 
There was a strength in the quiet voice that must 
prove the truth of her living. But Arthur Ledyard 
did not like to be outrun in the race even by such a 
woman as this same friend of his. That he could lay 
his hand upon a lower depth of life than she in her 
womanly purity could even guess at he knew perfectly 
well. He was wealthy and courted, and had a power 
for good or evil that must accordingly be in his hands. 

He was decidedly at odds w T ith himself as he walked 
swiftly along the road, unmindful of the sharp wind 
from across the river. His head was raised and he 
walked easily in the magnificence of his strength, but 
his soul was at war with his life and would not be 
silenced. The words of the brave young artist in the 
quaint farm-house on the hill had wakened thoughts 
that he would much rather have deadened than granted 


TAKEN OUT OF HER HANDS. 


165 


a hearing. But there were no comrades here to help 
him forget himself and his wasted life ; there were no 
gentle women to smile his mood away ; he was alone 
in the heart of the mountains, and his soul would not 
be still. 

"While Ada, going back to her work, waiting for 
her friend to come to her for a quiet afternoon’s 
reading together, musingly mixed the colors on her 
palette her thoughts were with this other friend 
who had W'akened her own heart and hopes and 
aims. He was a magnificent fellow, she thought, re- 
gretfully, with his great strength and unbounded 
health and almost limitless wealth and free gifts of 
talent. What a field lay before him for his taking, 
within his reach by simply accepting the charge ! 

She was unusually quiet when her friend came up, 
but her day’s work was done, and well done. Miss 
Deering’s eyes darkened as she glanced at the picture 
as Ada rose from before the easel to greet her, re- 
moving her apron and laying aside her palette and 
brushes. 

“ Just take off your things, and I’ll be ready in one 
minute,” Ada said, pleasantly ; but there w r as a shadow 
in her voice that the other girl had never before heard. 
She glanced up at her quickly, with eyes sharpened 


166 


AT BROWN'S. 


by friendship, though she m^,de no reply. “ I must 
change this dress, you know. It would never do to 
advertise my employment ! ” and she laughed now as 
she crossed the room to her wardrobe. 

“ I think I’d be glad to advertise it,” Miss Peering 
said, “ if I had such a talent, Miss Ada.” 

A soft color came into Ada’s face, half-turned from 
her companion. 

“ I am glad that I have it, Clare,” she said ; “ but I 
would rather prove what it is by my work than by my 
words or dress.” 

And then she added presently, returning to the 
windows and the low rockers they termed their read- 
ing-chairs : 

“ We’ll go higher than this art in our readisg to- 
day, deary. I have read this astronomy over twice, 
and yet it is as interesting reading to me as though it 
were my first reading. I never tire of reading that 
grand chapter on 6 Ultimate Force.’ It gives one an 
almost terrible thought of the Power behind the 
forming even of the world and the marvelous Mind 
fitting the world for its work and its fulfilling. I 
never tire of astronomy, anyway. And when we 
have finished this, Clare, you will take up gladly, as 
I did — as I do parts of it now — the study or reading 


TAKEN OUT OF HER HANDS. 


167 


of geology. Knowledge is power, literally, in more 
ways than one. Higher knowledge gives higher 
thoughts and a higher standard of life. Evil thoughts 
can scarcely gain a footing with one’s mind and heart 
on the grandeur and power of the Maker of such 
worlds and infinities of space, held in the hollow of 
his hand. When we come to the ( Primeval Storm ’ 
in the geology you will almost fear a Power so great 
and grand. I have read it over and over, and still 
every new reading arouses in me some new thought of 
its power. They say if one understands and studies 
the Bible one will have as high an education as the 
world can give, and that is true. But to understand 
the Bible one should take up these other studies that 
make so clear the hidden meanings that come often to 
one not knowing how to find them. Higher educa- 
tion gives a faint comprehension of what heaven will 
be ; and to comprehend the vastness and unlimited 
love of the Maker one has but to understand the laws 
that keep the worlds in their courses, that set new 
worlds before our eyes from the chaos of some other 
world gone to pieces. To comprehend what space 
really is one need but to place one’s self in fancy in 
space with its dense darkness, with only the worlds in 
their courses as specks of light — to stand, as it were, at 


168 


AT BROWN'S. 


Saturn and look away and out to tlie limitless ocean of 
darkness yet unlighted by a star.” 

Her eyes were shining now. She had forgotten her 
friend in this swift effort to lift the hungry mind of 
the girl before her to the food waiting but for accept- 
ance. She would never be great in the eyes of the 
world ; she would never hold the rank of general in 
any conflict ; but she could give to this hungry soul 
food for its craving, and so lit it, if even but a step 
higher, for its growth. 

“ Surely, Clare, ‘ the heavens declare the glory of 
God.’ If only we could understand it all, if only we 
may go on studying in heaven with the broader insight 
that must come with the losing of earth, with the 
gaining of heaven, and the infinite time given us 
there, the need for no haste, the need for no swift 
reading in order to accomplish all we would, but the 
whole grand book of heaven open for our education 1 
Don’t think me foolish in my idea of heaven, deary,” 
she added, with her swift wish to be understood, “ for 
it is life to me. To feel that I will sometime under- 
stand so many things that I cannot now, to know that 
then we shall not have to see ‘ through a glass darkly,’ 
but ‘ know even as we are known ! ’ ” 

Miss Deering was awed by the girl’s manner. The 


TAKEN OUT OF HER HANDS. 


169 


flashing eyes, the flushing cheeks, the soul on the 
lighted face, laid a touch upon her that she did not un- 
derstand, but would not have lost for the world. 

Circumstances in Miss Deering’s life had been such 
that her longing for knowledge, her desire for an ed- 
ucation, had to be sacrificed. She was hungry and 
thirsty for the knowledge that so many waste with- 
out thought. She would have given her life, almost, 
for the satisfying of this craving for that which life 
had not granted her. She felt her deficiency when 
she was with those who could not fail to see it. She 
had grown almost bitter brooding over it, as she bad 
plenty of time to do there in the mountains, and life 
narrowed down cuttingly the more she thought upon 
it. And then Ada had come into this life — Ada, 
with her education and her insight and her broad 
mind, that helped her to comprehend that which a 
smaller nature would never have grasped. And Ada, 
without the pride or effusion she would have hated her 
for, had suggested so many afternoons a week for 
reading together in a set course that would be bene- 
ficial for both. 

“ For,” she said, with a merry laugh that was yet 
tender in her desire to do what she could, u I believe 
I am growing rusty, wrapped up as I have been in this 


170 


AT BROWN'S. 


one talent’s perfecting. And it will make the winter 
so pleasant, Clare, dear, if we have some set work to 
do, and doing it together will make it nicer for both. 
I love to read, and reading with some one so that we 
may talk over what we have read makes it so much 
more delightful.” 

There was no hint of her knowledge that the girl 
was lacking in education in the slightest degree. It 
was merely a friendly compact for mutual benefit and 
increasing the pleasure of the long winter months. 
Clare Deering loved her from that moment. She had 
admired and liked her from the first, and envied the tal- 
ent of the girl, and smothered many longings as she sat 
in the square room at the Browns’ while the girl laid 
on her colors with a hand that proved her power; 
but from that moment forward she loved her. Miss 
Deering’s future life would lie now much in Ada’s 
hands — would be under her control to a degree that 
would have startled Ada had she known of it. 

“ One can learn much from newspapers too,” Ada 
said, still pursuing her train of thought. “ Of course, 
there are murders and divorces and dreadful things 
that one is better without reading, but there are items 
in every paper that help one. There are shreds of 
thought on science and arts and practical knowledge 


TAKEN" OUT OF HER HANDS. 


171 


that must help one. I know a woman who is a suc- 
cessful writer, and she told me once that the working 
out of her most powerful plot was done with the help 
of a paragraph in a daily paper regarding a recent 
discovery, proving the difference between the blood of 
men and animals. She keeps a scrap-box, as she calls 
it, for these stray items cut from papers that she 
hasn’t time to paste in a book, and they help her 
wonderfully. It keeps one’s knowledge sharp, too, to 
keep up with the world’s advancement. You simply 
can’t forget what you have learned in books so long as 
the daily papers keep the knowledge before your 
eyes in some grade of advancement.” 

So they sat down to their reading with this ambi- 
tion and love in their hearts, and the one forgot the 
sad thoughts that had come witli the call from her 
friend, and the other grasped with her hungry soul 
for the good things spread at her feet. And who 
knew what the morrow had in store for them ? 

The following Friday afternoon was beautiful, and 
the girls set out to keep their appointment for driving 
with their small friend at the little school-house on the 
hill. The horse sent up was not the one they usually 
drove; but she looked gentle enough, though her 
short ears pricked up nervously at any strange sight 


172 


AT BROWN'S. 


or sound. But Ada had not spoken in vanity when 
she told Mrs. Brown she was a good horsewoman, for 
she understood remarkably well the handling of the 
lines and the need there was for steadiness of nerve 
should there be occasion. The day was fine and the 
hour too early for their meeting with the child, so they 
decided to drive around by the village and Colby Pond 
to pass the extra time and enjoy to the full every 
moment of the delightful afternoon. Their hearts 
were light in the beauty of the day, and they chat- 
tered gayly of this thing and that and the other, or 
took up a more sober train of thought from the read- 
ing of the previous afternoon, pleased that each cared 
for this conversation. 

They had passed the river-road, shut in on both sides 
by hills and the silence, and were coming out on the 
open village-road, still laughing and chatting in the 
lightness of their hearts, with no thought of danger or 
the possible darkening of the day for them. They 
passed the first house on the road, and Ada had leaned 
laughingly from the carriage to call to the mischiev- 
ous little dog racing out into the road with its fierce 
yelping of defiance. They were turning up the slight 
hill beyond, a group of hunters in high boots and 
short jackets, with rifles over their shoulders, appearing 


A GROUP OF HUNTERS 



% 











































































TAKEN OUT OF HER HANDS. 


173 


in the distance, when a change came suddenly and 
swiftly over their gladness. The horse was new to 
them and apparently excitable, but Ada had felt per- 
fectly competent to manage her. Now, however, just 
as they reached the top of this hill there came from 
the woods the sharp crack of a rifle, followed rapidly 
by another and another, as if some one were trying at 
a mark. The skittish animal before their carriage ap- 
preciated this to the full. She reared for one swift 
instant to her full height, her eyes wild with terror; 
then with a mad snort she plunged and swerved and 
dashed forward, utterly unmindful of the steady hands 
on the lines, utterly regardless of the quiet, command- 
ing voice. 

It was a moment of terror. Neither girl uttered 
a sound, though Clare convulsively for one swift in- 
stant clasped her hands around the arm nearest her, 
but let go almost at once, seeing the need there was 
for all the girl’s strength for the attempt to control 
the animal wild with fear. The buggy was light, and 
it swayed violently with the mad dash over the frozen 
road, and the girls kept their seats with rare presence 
of mind. It was a furious two minutes. But it was 
over almost as swiftly as it began. 

The group of hunters in the distance had paused in 


174 


AT BROWN'S. 


horror at first sight of the mad rush of the horse and 
the danger of the girls. Then one, a tall, powerful 
young man, with the strength of youth in his arms 
and the strength of bravery on his fair face, sprang to 
the bridle as the horse came upon them, and hung on 
with all the power of which he was capable. The 
horse dragged him. He was powerful, but the animal 
was mad with fright. The bit was between the pow- 
erful teeth, and the hands on the bridle were almost 
unfelt at first. Then his strength told. The horse 
was dragged down by his weight, her head was low- 
ered, her flight arrested. She came to a dead halt, 
trembling in every limb. 

The young man regained his footing and a firmer 
hold of the bridle. He was very pale as he stood, tall 
and powerful, beside the animal, his face lifted to the 
white faces in the carriage. 

Ada’s hands fell loosely on the reins as she caught 
sight of his face. Her terror for the time had made 
her blind. She leaned forward with a dawning glow 
on her face, the look in her eyes repaying the man 
for any hurt he had received. 

“ Arthur ! ” she cried, and there was a tremor in 
the sweet voice that had never before been there for 
him ; and the stern white face lifted to hers let go its 


TAKEN OUT OF HER HANDS. 


175 


set lines. “ Arthur Ledyard, what shall I say to 
you ? I don’t know what to say ! I am so glad it is 
you ! ” 

Then a sudden fear swept the tender flush from her 
face, as she added, with a woman’s anxiety for his 
safety, 

“ But you are hurt ! You could not have done 
that without being hurt ! ” 

She twisted the reins around the whip-handle and 
sprang down from the carriage, turning to help her 
friend ; but the other men, by that time having reached 
them, were before her, and Miss Deering was among 
them, white with terror, but brave in her self-control. 

“No, I am not hurt,” she was saying, quietly, in 
answer to their anxious inquiry. “ Miss Ada must 
have hurt her arms holding on to the lines as she did ; 
but I am not hurt one bit.” Then she added, in swift, 
frank admiration: “Wasn’t she brave? Wasn’t she 
grand to sit there as if she hadn’t a fear in her heart ? 
I couldn’t be afraid with her there.” 

And Arthur Ledyard, hearing her words of enthu- 
siasm for this girl at his side, felt a proud conscious- 
ness in her friendship as he smiled down upon her 
lifted anxious face. 

“ Don't you fret about my being hurt,” he said, 


176 


AT BROWN'S. 


lightly. “ Who dared send you such an animal as 
this to drive ? It is no more fit for a lady than a 
wild chamois. I give you my word he’ll never do 
such a thing again, no matter how long you may order 
horses of him ! Are you certain you’re unhurt, Ada 
— you and your friend ? It was a dangerous thing.” 

There was a gleam in his eyes as he uttered her 
friend’s name, as if he would remind her of her desire 
for him never to meet this friend, and she smiled with 
brave acceptance of the situation as she said : 

“We are less hurt than you are, Arthur. Your 
face is so white I am certain you have received some 
harm. Wont you tell me honestly?” 

He laughed again easily, and shook his head. 

“ I believe you’d be glad to discover some hurt to 
make me more acceptable in your sight. Is this your 
friend ? And here are the fellows. You haven’t 
forgotten one of them, I’ll be bound ! You never 
forget a fellow. That’s the nicest thing in you, 
Ada ! ” 

She laughed too, now, and turned to the others 
pressing around her friend. 

“ You see Arthur proves my defender even here 
among the wildernesses ! ” she said, laughing, holding 
out her hands to these other friends from home. “ I 


TAKEN OUT OF HER HANDS. 


177 


always have to owe so much to him. These are some 
of my home friends, Miss Deering,” she added, with 
quick courtesy. “ This daring young man to whom 
we owe our lives” — with a laughing glance up at the 
big fellow beside her, more kindness in her eyes than 
in her voice — “ is Mr. Arthur Ledyard, my next-door 
champion since babyhood. Don’t thank him, for 
he’ll not like it. And here are my other friends.” 

She went over their names with merry allusions to 
home that made the meeting easier and put her friend 
at her best. They were still standing in the road, the 
girls scarcely daring to enter the carriage again. Pres- 
ently Arthur, with his hand still strongly upon the 
bridle, said to Robert Maynard, closer friend, perhaps, 
than the others : 

“Will you come along with me, Maynard? This 
horse must go back to the stables, and I am pining to 
tell that man what I think of him for giving these 
girls such an animal. Will you wait here, Ada, until 
we can bring you a horse fit to drive, or will you walk 
on down to the village and meet us? You fellows 
needn’t wait for us if you w r ant to go on. I’ll not go 
this afternoon. This sort of sport took away all desire 
to hunt a hare or fox. We’ll meet at the hotel and 

compare notes when you return.” 

12 


17 S 


AT BROWN'S. 


“Yes, don’t let us hinder jour hunt,” Ada said, 
with quick kindness. “ My friend and I will walk on 
down to the village and wait there for another horse, 
as I scarcely think I could get in behind her again, if 
Arthur and Mr. Maynard will be good enough to take 
her. It’s just too bad to .spoil your afternoon, though, 
yours and Rob’s, Arthur,” she added, as the others, 
bowing, with last words of regret for the accident, 
and hopes of meeting soon again during their stay, 
passed on down the road, leaving the four standing in 
the road beside the horse that had so strangely taken 
the plans out of Ada’s hands with regard to her new 
friend and the old. “ I am so sorry.” 

“ And may be we could take the horse,” began Miss 
Deering, though her face whitened as she spoke. Ar- 
thur laughed. His face was still as white as when he 
brought the horse to a stand and faced the girls in the 
carriage. The eyes of his friend were on him, though 
he said nothing before the girls. 

“ It’s nothing at all,” he declared in answer to Miss 
Deering’s hesitating words and Ada’s kindly regret. 
“ Come on, Maynard. The afternoon will have gone 
before we get another animal for you— -if you insist on 
going, though I don’t think you had better after this 
scare.” 


TAKEN OUT OF HER HANDS. 179 

“We wouldn’t go,” Ada said, “but we have made 
an engagement to take — some one — out with us.” 

She could not tell this friend of her strange little 
friend won in her effort to help those children. 

“ O yes, I see,” declared Arthur, laughing with a 
knowing shake of his head. “We wont detain you 
longer than we can help. Eh, Maynard ? ” 

“ Take the reins and drive hard,” he added under 
his breath as they mounted to the carriage and started 
for the village. “ This horse has done something or 
other to my shoulder, and it wont take much more to 
send me over.” 

His friend met his eyes steadily. 

“You’ve pluck enough to send you to the rack, 
Art,” was all he said, as the horse sped down the 
road and out of sight of the two girls. 

But Arthur set his teeth in agony. 


180 


AT BROWN'S. 


CHAPTER X. 

THE WORK OF A MINUTE. 

“The living men who burn in heart and brain, 

Without the dead, were colder. If we tried 
To sink the past beneath our feet, be sure 

The future would not stand .” — Casa Guidi Windows. 

“ Take me down to the doctor’s before yon go on 
to the livery, Maynard,” Arthur said, setting his teeth 
determinedly over the swift words, “and tell the 
girls when they come that I couldn’t wait because of 
important business. Couldn’t be much more impor- 
tant,” he added, grimly, as his friend nodded in 
reply, too anxious about him to utter any word. “ I 
hope he’ll be in; if he isn’t I’ll just send over for 
Wiley. I’d never get to him.” 

“But you’ll not have to send,” Robert Maynard 
said, with relief in his voice as they drew up at the 
doctor’s gate and saw him down by the stable. “ I’d 
rather leave you under Truman’s care than under that 
of a hundred Wileys, careful as he may be. I’ll stop 
for you on my way back. Don’t venture alone, Art.” 


THE WORK OF A MINUTE. 


1S1 


Arthur shrugged his broad shoulders as he got down 
carefully, in too much pain to reply to this last re- 
mark. Every breath was agony, every motion worse. 
But he set his strong white teeth over the suffering as 
bravely as he would have faced a battery under heavy 
fire. There was a bravery in his nature that had 
never been called into action, but he was changing his 
life somehow from the effects of those swift two min- 
utes on the road below — his life and his nature. 

Robert Maynard drove on down to the livery, his 
mind full of this hidden element in his friend’s char- 
acter and anxiety as to the extent of his injury, for 
serious he knew well it was so to weaken this strong 
young fellow. And he was thinking, too, of the brave- 
girls who had proved their womanhood at this trying 
moment when death faced them and life was so full 
of sweetness. 

At the livery he told his story and demanded a 
new and gentler horse, using pretty strong words in 
denouncing such carelessness as sending this animal to 
a lady to drive ; and the liveryman, who was kind- 
hearted, and had known nothing of the horse sent up, 
declared his sympathy for the young ladies and ordered 
one of the safest horses in the stables to be harnessed 
in the other’s place. 


182 


AT BROWN'S. 


“ I ordered the same horse sent lip to her always,” 
lie said, in explanation, “ and supposed, of course, she 
went up. But some one else took her out, and the 
men didn’t know it was for ladies, and put Jess in. 
Gray’s all right, he wouldn’t run if you lit a fire 
under him. O, yes, he will go, but lie’s perfectly 
safe. I’d trust him with my life any time.” 

“ Well, it’s not your life, now, you’re trusting to 
the mercies of a horse,” Robert Maynard said, smil- 
ing, though there was a sternness in his voice that 
bore weight of his displeasure. “ This carelessness 
came near causing the death of two young ladies, and 
has proved a serious accident to my friend. He 
wouldn’t wish it known, though, so please say nothing 
about it. I only warn you against such another piece 
of carelessness.” 

“ It’ll never happen again, I assure you,” the man 
replied, sincerely regretting the event. ‘‘Were the 
young ladies capable of managing — ” 

Robert Maynard interrupted him, angrily. 

“ The young lady driving is one of the best horse- 
women in the city!” he said, sharply. “That has 
nothing to do with the matter, understand. If you 
will keep such animals in your stables to endanger 
the lives of your patrons, please to remember that no 


THE WORK OF A MINUTE. 


183 


such beast is to be sent up to this lady. Send always 
the best animal you have that is fit for safe driving. 
If another such piece of carelessness happens — ” 

“It shall not happen again,” again replied the 
man, and it was evident that he meant it. “If she 
will let me know beforehand when she wishes a rig 
she shall have May always. She’s the prettiest an- 
imal going hereabouts, excepting those that are hired 
regularly, and she’s safe as a button. Here’s the rig 
ready, sir. Shall I send a man up — ” 

“ There is no need,” Maynard replied, considerably 
pacified by the man’s evident good intentions, though 
he was still sore for his friend’s hurt. “ The ladies 
themselves are coming. You are here just in time, 
Miss Ada,” he added, turning to the two girls ad- 
vancing down the drive. “ Here’s a horse that’ll 
carry you to Beersheba if you want to go.” 

“ I am very sorry, miss,” began the man regret- 
fully, but Ada interrupted him quietly. 

“ It was indeed bad enough,” she said, “ but it 
might have been worse ” ( “ Bad enough ! ” muttered 
Maynard, sotto voce ) “ instead of simply a rather un- 
comfortable fright. Indeed, it came near being the 
death of Mr. Ledyard. I cannot conceive how he 
ever escaped uninjured.” 


184 


AT BROWN'S. 


The man stared at young Maynard, who had just 
told him of the young man’s accident, but a glance 
of warning from that quarter silenced any word he 
might have said. 

“ But I’m not certain he was not hurt,” she added, 
quickly, her eyes always sharp for the well-being of a 
friend. “ Where is Arthur, Bob ? lie was to wait 
for us ; he said so himself. I believe he was in- 
jured — ” 

lie interrupted her with a smile that was not so 
brave as Arthur would have given her, in spite of his 
pain. He turned to assist them into the carriage as 
he answered, quite calmly: 

“ He would have waited, indeed, Miss Ada — you 
know him well enough to be certain of that — had he 
not been hindered by some business. He didn’t ex- 
plain fully what it was” (“poor fellow,” he muttered 
to himself), “ but you can imagine it was unavoid- 
able for him to break any sort of an agreement, es- 
pecially where you are concerned,” he added, laugh- 
ing easily. “ I wish you and your friend a far more 
pleasant drive than this has been. Don’t worry about 
Arthur,” he continued, with kindly recollection. 
“ You'll see him up at the house to-morrow or the day 
after. We have a half-formed engagement between us 


THE WORK OF A MINUTE. 


185 


and the other fellows; but if it is possible he will 
doubtless go up then. Of course, he will be anxious 
to know how the rest of the afternoon turned out.” 

“And I shall be anxious,” said Ada, quietly, her 
eyes darkening, “ to know whether or not he did re- 
ceive any sort of injury from this. Tell him to come 
at any time, and of course you are welcome, too,” she 
added, with one of her warm smiles that said so much 
more than words could ever utter. I am at home 
almost always during the mornings, or early in the 
afternoon. And Miss Deering and I may be able to 
help you make the acquaintance of the Adirondacks. 
Miss Deering knows them by heart, I believe. It is 
delightful to be with her.” 

“ I could not doubt that,” lie said, smilingly, lifting 
his cap. “ I may come to you for knowledge yet, 
Miss Deering.” 

She liked him, but she did not smile back ; there 
was not a trace of answering raillery in her eyes. She 
was not in the habit yet of these pleasant nothings of 
social life. 

“A shy little thing,” he said to himself, as he 
walked back to the doctor’s house, thinking over her 
non-reply and the still look of the pale oval face. 
“A shy little thing, but she’ll get used to it all, as the 


186 


AT BROWN'S. 


rest of us do. What a terrible thing it would be 
if one believed every thing or half of any thing ut- 
tered between men and women ! And what a strange 
world it would be where nothing but truth were ut- 
tered ! There’d not be half the fun in life there is 
now, but may be ” — he paused in the thought, it was 
such an utterly novel thought — “ may be it would be 
a better world, after all, where the women were true 
and the men held to honor. That girl looked capa- 
ble of it, anyway. Ada’s found a friend after her 
own heart, I suppose, though she’s like sunshine with 
her low voice and smiling lips and those great dark 
eyes meeting a fellow squarely. She sort of holds 
you to the truth, too, and if all women were like her 
and this Miss — what’s her name? — Deering, it’d be 
another sort of place to live in. Heigho, but Art’s 
accident has evidently given me the morals.” He 
laughed and shrugged his shoulders as he pushed open 
the gate at the doctor’s and went up the walk ; but 
down in his heart the memory of these two girls held 
a half power that he would not have shaken off if he 
could. 

“ It’s a queer world,” he said, pausing on the steps 
before ringing the bell, and looking back along the 
road where the sunlight made every thing glaring 


THE WORK OF A MINUTE. 


187 


and bare. “ But it miglit have been worse, I suppose. 
I only hope Arthur’s all right by now.” 

He rang the bell there, and the girl who answered 
his ring said that the gentleman had gone — the doc- 
tor went with him — and left word for his friend, Mr. 
Maynard, to come on to their hotel. 

“ It’s worse than I feared, evidently,” he muttered, 
turning rapidly away, scarcely waiting for the girl to 
finish her message. “It’s evidently worse than I 
feared, and here we’re up for sport. It’s a shame 
for those liverymen to keep such animals for injury 
to persons. They ought to be made to suffer finely 
for it, and I wish they could be. Those girls might 
have been killed — most likely would have been but 
for Arthur — and here the poor fellow has to suffer. 
It’s a sin and a shame, and I wish I could give him a 
sore head for it.” Then he laughed desperately. “ A 
fine occupation fora gentleman,” he said. “Any one 
might mistake me for one of those fellows who fight 
each other for the money it will bring. What would 
Miss Ada say, I would like to know, if she should 
hear me laying down the law like this ! ” 

But his heart was very sore in spite of his attempt 
at gayety, and he stopped at the livery to hire a 
rig to take him to the hotel across the lake. They 


188 


AT BROWN'S. 


had walked down, but in his haste to return to his 
friend he could not wait for walking. 

“¥e haven’t an animal in the stable but that skit- 
tish mare,” the liveryman said, disappointment in his 
face, for this was a most desirable customer, and he 
knew it. “ Sorry, sir — ” 

“ Give her to me at once,” Maynard interrupted. 
“ I’m not afraid of her. Don’t harness her to any 
rig, either. I’ll not wait ; I’m in the biggest hurry 
you ever knew. Give her to me in saddle, quickly. 
You can send a man over for her any time. Come, 
I’ll make it an object for your hurry ! ” 

He was excited, and the man had no trouble to learn 
this. He remembered liis wounded friend, and asked 
regarding him. 

“ Don’t know ! ” was the sharp reply. “ Hurry up, 
will you, with that mare ? Gone over to the hotel 
with the doctor, so it isn’t the easiest case in the world. 
Such luck, and just in the best season for sport ! That 
comes of your half-broken horses ! ” 

He sprang to the saddle, throwing down a note that 
made the man’s eyes open, and was galloping at full 
speed out of the yard and through the village as if 
chased by demons. 

“ I’ll give you a chance to show your speed,” he 


THE WORK OF A MINUTE \ 


189 


muttered to tlie mare, using tlie whip without mercy 
on the glossy flank. “You may just pay for the in- 
jury you’ve done now, my beauty. You needn’t ex- 
pect to walk up the hill, either. Away with you, 
madame ! ” 

He was smiling grimly in his excitement as he 
urged the horse up the long steep hill beyond the 
village. “Away you go, Madame Jess, and you’re 
sorry now for your skittishness that might have 
ended worse ! ” 

He might have feared meeting the girls, had they 
not told him their route ; so he dashed on madly, 
people turning to see the stern horseman and his 
foaming horse, for the mare was doing her best and 
better than she ever had done before save at her own 
sweet will, and the foam was thick on her mouth and 
flecked the firm shoulders like flakes of snow. 

He threw the bridle to one of the hotel boys and 
sprang to the ground, giving orders for the animal 
to be cared for until she should be sent for ; then he 
hurried within and up to Arthur Ledyard’s room. 
One of the clerks met him as he was crossing the 
room to the staircase. 

“ Something wrong with Mr. Ledy ard, Mr. Maynard ? 
Too bad, indeed ; he’s such a magnificent fellow ! ” 


190 


AT BB OWN'S. 


“ Humph, yes,” young Maynard muttered, as lie 
mounted tlie stairs, trying to repress his excitement 
here where every one knew them as the wealthy 
young fellows from the city who had come up for 
sport. “All his magnificence didn’t save him this 
time, though, my fine friend. Better talk about 
horses instead of men after that fashion.” 

“ Come,” said Arthur’s voice quietly at his rap on 
the door of his parlor. “ Iieigho, Maynard ! A 
pretty go, isn’t it ? Where are my rabbits and wood- 
cock, pray ? All gone up in the bandage, you see. 
It’s a jolly go, though. What did you say to the 
fellow down there ? Gave him hail Columbia, didn’t 
you? I’d have given him hail Columbia and the 
chief along with it ! And did the girls get a decent 
horse? A great thing to risk people's necks after 
this fashion ! ” 

“Yes,” Robert Maynard said. “A pretty pass, I 
think, when a person cannot even be certain of life 
one instant on account of carelessness on the part of 
responsible parties ! I gave the man a piece of my 
mind — not a small piece, either — and he declared his 
innocence and looked it, too. Miss Ada and her 
friend have gone out now with as stupid an animal as 
ever pulled a carriage. I didn’t tell them so, but if 


TFIE WORK OF A MINUTE. 


191 


the creature gets off of a walk it’ll be one of the sur- 
prises of my life. How’re you getting on ? Had to 
bring him home, did you, doctor?” 

“Well, I should think so,” was the half-laughing 
reply. “ A fellow with a dislocated shoulder ought 
to be at home as soon as possible. I wonder, though, 
that he bore it as he did. It was the height of agony 
riding up here.” 

“ How do you know ? ” demanded Arthur, a rather 
stubborn expression around his set mouth. “You’ve 
never had a dislocated bone in your life, have you?” 

The physician laughed amusedly. It was a posi- 
tive pleasure to have such a patient under his care, 
even at the expense of his suffering. Such a magnif- 
icent physique was scarcely ever met with nowadays. 

“ I know something of physiology,” he replied. 
“ I could scarcely fail to know what you are suffering 
though I had never had a pain in my life. Put one 
of the joints of a finger out of place and find out for 
yourself what dislocation means even to that extent. 
Perhaps after that you’ll not comprehend; but I 
rather think you will.” 

“ You ought to have seen him cling to that animal, 
doctor,” Kobert Maynard said, a flush on his face, a 
flash in his dark eyes. “ It was something to see, I 


192 


AT BROWN'S. 


tell you. She’s got the jaw of a lion, and her head is 
like steel to turn if she isn’t willing. But he just 
liung on, and she had to stop. She couldn’t drag him 
along with the girls too — ” 

“You needn’t go into particulars, Maynard,” Ar- 
thur said, brusquely, the color flaming across his here- 
tofore colorless face. “ Truman treats a fellow with- 
out having to know the facts of the case. You 
needn’t go into particulars.” 

“ O ! ” Maynard said, calmly. “ So you didn’t tell 
him, Art? It’s like you. But I think a physician 
should know the facts of the case ; I think, also, that 
Dr. Truman is of the same opinion.” 

“ A physician sometimes has to work in the dark,” 
the doctor said, laughing ; “ but he doesn’t like to do 
it. It’s only humanity that ever helps him to do so. 
I guessed pretty near the truth of this case, though. 
A fellow with your muscles, Mr. Ledyard, isn’t very 
likely to be thrown by the most vicious animal going 
on four legs. You told your story pretty well for a 
story, but I prefer the truth.” 

“ It wasn’t any thing,” he declared, his face still 
flushed with annoyance. “ A man wouldn’t have been 
a man to do otherwise.” 

“ W ell, I have known persons who call themselves 


THE WORK OF A MINUTE. 


193 


men to do just that thing, Mr. Led yard. I am very 
glad to have you in my care, though not on your own 
account. I regret the sport you must miss for some 
time to come, but will get you strong as a fiddle- 
string as soon as possible. Here, give us your hand, 
Mr. Ledyard — your left hand, of course — and I’ll be 
up to-morrow to look at you. Don’t let him take cold 
in that shoulder, Mr. Maynard. I leave him in your 
hands. You’re the sort of a man to keep him in rib- 
bons when necessary, though it’s going to be tough on 
you. Good-day, gentlemen. To-morrow at four.” 

“ They don’t know, Maynard ? ” demanded Arthur, 
with some excitement, as the physician closed the 
door behind him. “You didn’t let them know? I 
know you wouldn’t if you could help it ; but Ada’s 
got a fashion of her own for making a fellow tell her 
the truth, and all of it.” 

“ Don’t bother yourself about that,” Mr. Maynard 
said, quietly. “ They haven’t the least idea. Ada 
was on the point of making me swear to your state of 
health, but somehow the subject got turned. That 
Miss Deering is a queer girl. Did you notice her 
specially? Got a face like a Madonna, but a pair of 
eyes that wouldn’t hesitate to blaze at a small fire. 
She keeps her mouth shut most effectually, but she’s 
13 


194 


AT BROWN'S. 


got the temper back of it to say sharp things. 
She’s young enough for that yet, but by and by, when 
she grows into the world and its ways, she’ll be a 
woman a man wouldn’t care to ruffle. She’d never 
stand the flattery and careless words we give other 
women any more than Ada would herself. They’re a 
pair, though, I tell you. If the world were made up 
of such women — ” 

“ Well,” demanded Arthur, pettishly. His shoul- 
der was exceedingly painful, but there was something 
within that brought the frown on his forehead and 
the fretful lines around his mouth as pain itself could 
not do. “And if the world were made up of such 
women — what then, Maynard ? Don’t leave a fellow 
in suspense after such a brilliant opening for a speech. 
If the world were made up of such women — ” 

“ Why, the world would be a mighty sight better ; 
that’s all,” burst out his friend, recklessly, pushed to 
the wall by Arthur’s raillery. “ There wouldn’t be 
so many spoiled, lives or broken hearts in it, either.” 

“Humph!” Arthur said, crossly. “And Robert 
Maynard, the charming pet of the ladies, wouldn’t 
have such a pleasant time of it, either. You may as 
well finish your remarks when they are so startlingly 
original, Maynard.” 


THE WORK OF A MINUTE. 


195 


“ Of course you’d laugli at me,” was the sturdy 
reply. “ I knew that well enough, but I believe what 
I say just the same. You may put a man in a road 
of life and he may know perfectly well that he" must 
walk that path to the end, but if he knows of a higher 
and purer and sweeter road than the one he' is tread- 
ing he may long to be in it, too. And if he doesn’t 
really wish to be there he will no doubt give his 
thoughts to it and puzzle out what life might have 
been if such a road had been before him.’” 

“ Another ‘ might-have-been,’ ” retorted Arthur, bit- 
terly, a bitterness his friend could not comprehend. 
“ If all the f might-have-beens ’ were collected and 
piled in the road of life what an alarming pile it would 
be! We would never have the courage to attempt 
climbing over them or pulling them down or get- 
ting around them. Pray don’t get melancholy, 
Maynard.” 

“It isn’t any sort of melancholy,” Mr. Maynard 
said, without a trace of his friend’s bitterness. “ I’m 
simply imagining an impossible feature of society, and 
considering what the world would be under those cir- 
cumstances. There are stranger things than that, I 
am sure. Talking to girls of the sort we have seen 
this afternoon puts new thoughts in a fellow’s head, 


196 


AT BBOWN'S. 


anyway. They’re both the strangest girls I ever 
met, and we’ve met pretty singular girls in our 
day,” he added, laughing. “You can’t deny that, 
Ledyard.” 

“I am denying nothing and building no impos- 
sibilities, either,” replied Arthur, still unmollified. 
“Do cheer a fellow up, Maynard, and not do your 
best to give him the blues. The idea of your imag- 
ining such an impossible manner of society ! It’s as 
good a joke as I ever heard. I’ve half a mind to tell 
the fellows just to prove what a Daniel we’ve here in 
our midst.” 

“ I trust you for that,” Robert Maynard replied, 
quietly. “ You would no more repeat what I have 
just said to you than you would utter the same 
thoughts yourself. A man’s mind is, to a certain 
extent, under his control, and also to a certain other 
extent completely beyond it. If you had told me 
this morning that I should have such thoughts ever 
in my life I think I should have considered you in- 
sane. If we had never met those two girls there is 
little doubt that I should never have let them into my 
mind. But — we met the girls and the thoughts are 
there. Change a man’s life, set him in as many new 
paths as you will, but the old paths will haunt his 


THE WORK OF A MINUTE. 


197 


memory forever ; bat if it were not for tlie old paths 
the new would never have come.” 

“ I don’t follow you,” Arthur interrupted, pettish- 
ly. “ You are getting beyond your own depth, May- 
nard ; 3^011’d better pause now while there’s time.” 

“ Yes, you may laugh all you choose ; I do not 
mind it,” his friend said, calmly. “ I am not yet be- 
yond my depth, Arthur, any more than I am beyond 
yours. We have talked life over enough in our time 
to say what we choose now. Neither of us lias been 
through any new phase that the other has not known 
of. I wouldn’t say what I have to another person in 
the world, Arthur Ledyard, and you know it perfectly 
well. I don’t know what has taken possession of my 
mind, but these thoughts will come, and I am giving 
you the benefit of them. If you don’t care for them 
you can easily let them go — ” 

“ It isn’t so easy as you may think to get rid of 
troublesome thoughts, Maynard,” Arthur again inter- 
rupted, “and just now, when I am to have a de- 
lightfully cheerful time shut up in the hotel while the 
hunting is going to waste.” 

“ It is too bad,” Maynard said, gravely, “ old fel- 
low. I wish I could help it. But, as I tell you, those 
girls have unconsciously brought a change into both 


198 


AT BROWN'S. 


our lives. You cannot help it, and neither can I. 
We can’t change the old life, and it would do no 
good ; we’d never be ourselves without our lives be- 
hind us ; but if new thoughts come to the new life 
that we live every day is there any reason for our 
pushing them down because, forsooth, they are not 
the same thoughts that came yesterday, because our 
life isn’t just the same as it was a day or two ago ? 
We’ve been through college together, Ledyard, and 
you know me as well as I know you. We have 
scarcely kept a thought to ourselves, either of us. I 
have simply given you this thought as I would give 
you any other.” 

u Thank you,” Arthur replied, laconically. “ I 
appreciate your frankness, Maynard.” 

“ And I appreciate your situation, you poor fel- 
low ! ” added his friend, with a laugh that he tried to 
make gay. “ I’m afraid, too, that you’ll not be able 
to keep the engagement I half made for you. I told 
Ada, when she was doing her best to get me to tell 
her of your condition, that doubtless you would go up 
there to-morrow or the day following. I don’t see 
much possibility of it at present.” 

“ And neither does any one else,” said Arthur, bit- 
terly. Then he laughed with his old reckless spirit as 


THE WORK OF A MINUTE. 


199 


lie added, “ What a grumbler you’ll have on your 
hands, Maynard ! As though this beastly accident, 
received in defense of beauty, oughtn’t to be reward 
and happiness enough ! But I am abominably put 
out at the lost shooting.” 


200 


AT BROWN'S. 


CHAPTER XI. 

UNCONSCIOUS INFLUENCE. 

... “ in his hand, 

Weighing them suo jure. Tend the root, 

If careful of the branches ; and expand 
The inner souls of men before you strive 
For civic heroes .” — Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 

When the girls drove up to the school-house they 
found the child ready. She was waiting with a sort 
of bravado, however. The invitation she had received 
from Ada to drive with her and her friend was so 
novel that, down in her heart, the child was afraid 
to believe too strongly in its good faith. The other 
children laughed at her for believing it at all, and 
she -would rather have died than have shown any 
anxiety on the subject. The time appointed for their 
coming had gone by, and school was out ; but still the 

children lingered to see their comrade’s discomfiture 

* 

when these fine ladies she absurdly called her friends 
should not make their appearance. 

She saw them before her companions did. She 


UNCONS CIO US INFL UENCK 


201 


was playing recklessly at tag with Jimmy, and her 
face was flushed with the exercise and her laughter 
was wilder than usual, while she raced with such dis- 
regard of breath or limbs that poor Jimmy was hav- 
ing a hard time of it. Her eyes were bright with excite- 
ment. She knew perfectly well that the other children 
were waiting to have the truth of her statement proved, 
and she was hoping down to the very depths of 
her heart that the ladies would come very soon ; but 
she shouted and screamed and raced in her reckless- 
ness, doing her small best to keep them from know- 
ing how sore her heart was becoming as the minutes 
went by and no carriage stopped at the grounds. 

But she saw them presently, just as her heart was 
getting very, very heavy ; but she kept right on, to 
prove that nothing was happening more than she had 
expected. They drew up in the road, and Ada, see- 
ing her, called cheerily to her, with a bright nod or 
smile for the others, who shrank back abashed and 
convicted of their own unkindness. Ellen went out at 
once — no hesitation about her now — shaking back the 
frowzled red hair from her Unshed face. 

“ What a jolly time you are having!” Ada said, 
laughing. u Your cheeks are like roses, Ellen. What 
did your mother say ? May you go with us ? I was 


202 


AT BROWN'S. 


half afraid she would not trust you with us. You 
may come ? All right ; jump in, girlie. It’s a glo- 
rious day, and we’ll make the best of it.” 

She did not question the child as to the possibility 
of her uttering a falsehood ; the child’s eyes met hers 
fearlessly as she gave her reply. But x\da would not 
have questioned her truth even had she doubted it. 

“ Let them think for one moment that they are 
capable of telling an untruth and you’re pretty cer- 
tain of helping them to utter one some day. I am 
half afraid she would not hesitate to deliver a wrong 
message, but if we should try to prove it we could 
not be certain of doing it. If she is capable of lying 
she would do it then surely.” 

And Miss Deering had not questioned the motive 
behind this strange mode of dealing with a possible 
liar. She was beginning to understand this girl as 
she was. 

So Ellen climbed in, with all the children there to 
witness her triumph, as she termed it to herself ; not 
in such words, perhaps, but meaning the same thing. 
Jimmy was there, too, and Ada asked their new little 
friend regarding him, and called to him gently, with a 
smile that half melted his bashfulness, that some day 
they would stop for him, and he must be certain to 


UNCONSCIOUS INFLUENCE. 


203 


go, adding, with a merry nod, as they drove away 
before the curious eves, that perhaps — who knew? — 
some day they all might have a jolly ride together. 

“ I am glad your mother wasn’t afraid to trust you 
to us,” Ada said, by and by, as they drove on around 
the pond, intending to drive to the village, stopping 
there for fruit or candies for the child, and so out to 
Alexander’s Hotel on the lake. “ I was almost afraid 
she would think we were going to run away with 
you. But I used to like to ride when I was little as 
well as I do now, and we thought may be you would 
like it too. You and Jimmy were having such a good 
time that day I half envied you your freedom. It 
wouldn’t do for me to race as you were racing, you 
know,” she added, laughing gayly, the child’s shrill 
voice mingling with her soft voice. u We said we 
would ask you sometime how you manage to have 
such a jolly time. Do you always have such good 
times ? ” 

“ No’m ; ” the child’s face darkened ; she lifted her 
eyes frankly to the kindly bending face above her. 
“ Miss Ketcham aint in love with us ; she says we’re 
nothin’ but tlier bother o’ her life, an’ all she wants 
to do is ter keep us still as she ken, so’s to read her 
book. She don’t mind our knowin’ it. On’y she says 


204 


AT BROWN'S. 


ef ever we tells tlier committee ’bout et she’ll give 
us a lickin’ every day fer a week. ’Taint likely we’s 
goin’ ter tell no committee when we ken have secli a 
good time an’ not have ter study much. She must 
think we’s all horned fools ! She gives us a lickin’ 
onct in a while when she gets real mad, but gen’rally 
we has a good ’nough time. We’d rather have Miss 
Ketcham ’n tlier other one we had las’ winter. She 
was a whopper, she was ! She jest made us set down 
an’ study an’ say our readin’ an’ learn our letters as 
though she was grindin’ a wheel fer knives. Thet’s 
wot parp says, an’ neither him nor marm thinks we’d 
oughter be made ter do sech things. I learned tlier 
whole alphabet thet winter, though, an’ begun ter 
read a little in tlier bigger book. Then Miss Ketcham, 
she come this time, an’ we don’t have no sech a hard 
time ; we kinder like ter come now, for et’s either 
that or world n’ to home.” 

“ So you have to go to school to play ? ” Ada said ; 
“ that seems too bad, Ellen. That isn’t the way we 
used to do at our school. We had our time for play, 
of course, and had a good time of it, too, I can tell 
you ; but we went to school to learn to do and be 
something, to learn how to read and write, and how 
the world was made, and how people are made, and 


UNCONSCIOUS INFLUENCE 


205 


what they do to make the world such a nice place to 
live in, and what the people used to do before men 
learned how to do these things. Don’t you think 
that was better than going just to make pictures on 
the wall or slates and making fun of the teacher ? 
Shouldn’t you like to know, by and by, how these big 
mountains came to be mountains at all, and how that 
river came to be down there in the meadows ? ” 

Ellen shook her head. Her eyes were opening w T ith 
wonder, but she did not quite comprehend ; and then 
things had always been as they were now. What did 
this pretty lady mean ? She liked to ride, but she 
didn’t just know what to say to this sort of talk. 

u No’m,” she said, with a still more determined 
shake of her ruddy hair. “ Guess I wouldn’t like to 
learn nothin’ ’bout them no more’n parp an’ marm 
learned. Tlier mountings has al’ays been here, an’ 
ther river comes down from tlier lakes. It’s come 
ever since our folks has lived here, an’ that’s some 
years. It’s more fun doin’ pict’rs an’ makin’ Miss 
Ketcham mad. Y ou’d oughter seen her, though, t’other 
day, when Dick done that pictur’ o’ her an’ her young 
man — Sile, you know. I nearly choked tryin’ ter 
keep from gigglin’ right out loud. She’d a had 
me up next ef she’d heard me. An’ parp an’ marm 


206 


AT BROWN'S. 


couldn’t help larfin’ neither when I told ’em ’bout et. 
They said ’twarn’t no more’n she deserved, she bein’ 
so wild ter git him. But she don’t al’ays ketch us, an’ 
then it’s more fun.” 

Ada glanced across at Miss Deering over the child’s 
head. This — such talk as this — in the nineteenth cent- 
ury from a child not over six years old — approved, too, 
by that child’s parents in the fashion she described, 
upholding her in making fun of her teacher and 
disapproving the sort of teacher who would have her 
follow law and order ! What — she felt her heart go- 
ing down in fear of accomplishing any thing here — 
what could one expect from such people as these? 
Was it any wonder there was so little prosperity 
among them ? Was it any wonder they lived in their 
log-cabins as those lived who came to an uncivilized 
country at a time when education was scarcely known, 
save among the higher classes of society ? Was it any 
thing to be wondered at if the child should have grown 
to that point when she could meet the eyes of another 
uttering a lie as frankly as she would utter the truth ? 
She shivered, thinking of it, and stooped over the 
small girl in sudden tenderness, brushing back the 
coarse red hair from the freckled face and bare neck 
that the keen wind was making bright with color. 


UNCONSCIOUS INFLUENCE. 


207 


“ You poor little thing! ” she said, softly, a tender- 
ness in her face that puzzled the child looking up to 
her. She was unused to any sort of tenderness. Life 
was too rough for any show of soft feelings. Life was 
hard, and it hardened even the children. “ Bless your 
heart, girlie, do you honestly believe that those 
mountains have been there ever since the world was 
made ? Don’t you know and don’t you want to know 
that once the world was truly round and level, and it 
is only after countless years that these hills and riv- 
ers have been cut out by the floods and snow-slides 
and earthquakes ? ” 

The child laughed roughly. She pulled her head 
away from the girl’s light touch. There was defiance 
on her face and in her eyes. 

“ Parp an’ inarm says so, or’t least they don’t say 
nothin’ ’bout et, and that means ther same. Ther 
mountings has been here ever since our folks has, an’ 
that’s ’nough ter know ’bout ’em, anyway. I lmow’t 
we did have a flood some time or other ; somebuddy 
told me— Mis’ Brown, guess ’twas. She’s nice, Mis’ 
Brown is. She aint stingy with her old sugar an’ 
buttermilk an’ things, as some folks is. She’ll give 
you wot yer want ef you ask her. She said onct — 
I forget when, but ’taint no ’count — thet she’d never 


208 


AT BROWN'S. 


seen sech suthin’-or-other, an’ didn’t b’lieve tliar ever 
bad been sence tber flood. That’s all I know ’bout et. 
’T warn’t much, anyways. She aint lived here longer ’n 
my parp an’ inarm an’ tliar folks has, an’ she can’t 
know nothin’ more ’bout et. But she’s nice, she is. 
I like her.” 

She might have been an empress granting her favor 
to some humble applicant for it with that air of quiet 
decision. She liked her. She didn’t like many peo- 
ple — that is, not specially, but she liked her. To win 
a child’s heart is harder than to win the heart of a 
woman or man. Children have not become accus- 
tomed to the deceits of life ; they have not learned to 
feel that each man may be an enemy, that every one 
is scheming for himself. They are simple of heart. 
They read with unprejudiced eyes into the soul from 
the words and face. It was the height of praise from 
this child to say so quietly that she “liked” the 
woman. 

Ada got out of the carriage in the village to make 
the small purchases she intended for the child. The 
horse they now drove was, as Mr. Maynard had said 
to his friend, “ as stupid an animal as ever pulled a 
carriage.” Had they been in any haste they might 
have lost considerable of their good humor. As it 


UNCONSCIOUS INFLUENCE. 


209 


was they laughingly declared that a slow horse was 
preferable to an animal that would run at a leaf stir- 
ring. Gray knew his business, and attended to it with 
all his heart. He walked and meditated with head 
held erect only upon compulsion of the stiff check. 
As Ada returned to the carriage she remarked gayly 
that their turnout was certainly more remarkable for 
its safety than its elegance, but it was better to have 
something that could be relied upon than the hand- 
somest animal going. And Miss Deering replied, also 
laughing, that there was little doubt of his perfect 
safety ; he was too much of a philosopher to hurry his 
steps for any one. But the child said nothing, a new 
thought in her mind, born of a chance word lightly 
uttered. When Ada laid the parcels she had brought 
in her- lap, bidding her eat all she could and all she 
wanted, only to save a part for those at home, the 
child’s eyes widened with astonishment, and she tore 
open the topmost with eager hands and eyes. But 
Ada noticed that she did not eat one of the candies or 
touch the fruit. She smiled;' thinking the child might 
feel some bashfulness before them, and then forgot the 
occurrence. 

“ It’s of no use. even thinking of going further than 

Alexander’s,” she' said to Miss Deering, laughing. 

14 


210 


AT BROWN'S. 


“ This creature will, perhaps, get us there and back be- 
fore dark, but not one step further will he go. I wish 
the other horse had been safe — ” She paused, flushing 
suddenly ; for she would not let this child know of the 
accident that had happened to them, not wishing others 
to know, and perfectly aware of the spreading of news 
in a quiet place such as that. “ It’s too bad this is the 
only decent horse they had in the stables, for it would 
have been fun to drive down on the Placid road and 
come back at the sunset. Those colors, seen over the 
plains, are something to remember.’’ 

“ The colors are wonderful,” Miss Peering said ; 
but the child broke in upon this conversation with ut- 
ter disregard of the conventionalities. 

“ This aint one of ther Browns’ bosses, is it ? ” she 
asked, with perfect composure, though there was a 
flush on the deflant face that Ada could not compre- 
hend. 

“ No,” she said, smiling. “ They have to use their 
horses all the time, excepting the colts, which we 
couldn’t drive — ” 

“ No ; ” the child shook her head wisely. “ An’ 
Jim, he wouldn’t let yer drive ’em, neither, even ef 
you could. He’s set on keepin’ them colts fer his own 
use, an’ ’d as soon give one away as let nobody else 


UNCONSCIOUS INFLUENCE. 


211 


drive ’em. Miss Ketcham was tellin’ Miss Brown 
’bout et one day, an’ we heard ’em. They’d been 
some’r’s when Jim was away an’ took them colts, an’ 
ef Jim wasn’t tlier maddest feller goin’ you can jest 
guess. He aint bad-natured, Jim aint, but it riled him, I 
s’pose, ter have ’em takin’ them colts o’ his own out o’ 
tlier barn when they knowed he’d never ’ve let ’em go 
’tliout him ef he’d been home. Jim’s nice. Don’t you 
like Jim, miss?” 

“ Yes ; ” Ada nodded her head brightly. She liked 
him. He was good-natured. He was frank, too ; but 
down in her heart was an ache for the suffering in his 
mother’s heart, strengthened, if not born, of the life 
of this same good-natured Jim. 

“Yes, lie’s nice,” the child went on in her shrill 
voice, pitched high with excitement. “ He’s nice, 
Jim is. Even Miss Ketcham, she said so ; an’ El 
Brown, she said larfin’ thet she’d give her this brother 
ef she’d promise ter manage him. But Miss Ketcham, 
she said, gettin’ red as could be, thet she had all she 
could manage with us children. Yes, Jim’s nice. 
He gets drunk sometimes, an’ then he aint so good- 
natured, but he’ll let you git on an’ have a ride ef 
lie’s got a load when tlier others ’d say they wouldn’t 
have a passel of children fer ther bosses ter lug. Jim 


212 


AT BROWN'S. 


gets drunk, but et don’t hurt him special. He gets 
over et an’ never does nothin’ ter harm nobody while 
he’s so, as some does.” 

“Ho?” Ada was asking herself sadly. Ho harm? 
Where was the mother’s sad heart ? Where was the 
grand old soul that would shut its lips and fold its 
arms sturdily over any pain that this son had helped 
lay upon her ? 

“ O’ course ye’ve heard o’ tlier murderin’ down 
here summer ’fore this — tlier two guides wot got mad 
an’ fit, an’ then one of ’em, he got madder an’ come 
down bimeby with a gun an’ popped over tlier 
other ’thout givin’ him time ter say ; boo ! ’ I tell 
yer thar was some goin’ on then. Didn’t they set up to 
give him a haulin’ over, though. But they aint never 
got him. They made a big time ’bout huntin’ him 
an’ doggin’ him an’ all that, but some says the}^ don’t 
b’lieve they wanted ter take him, fer they had chance 
’nougli. They jest let him walk right out o’ tlier 
place ’thout even tryin’ ter stop him ; an’ men’s seen 
him in tlier woods an’ round an’ aint never done noth- 
in’ fer gettin’ him. He stood over on tlier piazzy o’ 
tlier red store there — see — an’ t’other, he stood on tlier 
platform o’ tlier hotel opp’site, an’ this feller he let 
drive an’ over goes tlier other! ” 


UNCONSCIOUS INFLUENCE. 


213 


She warmed up to lier description, hut there was 
no horror in her eyes at the murder done. There 
was no pity for either in the light flashing eyes. She 
was a strange child, Ada thought, still thinking of 
what the lives of the other children must be. 

“They got mad over nothin’ special either,” went 
on the thin voice. “ One feller, he took out a party 
tliet t’other ’d been takin’, an’ they got quarreling an’ 
then they got drunker, an’ this feller he did ther mur- 
der. Some folks says he must have froze out in ther 
w’oods last winter, but some of ’em thinks he may’ve 
got in with ther lumbermen along up by Canada an’ 
is livin’. They’ve had chances ’nough ter ketch him, 
parp thinks, but jest don’t want ter. He was a 
nice feller when he wasn’t drunk, an’ he wasn’t 
drunk al’ays. Why, he was down in ther woods, 
they says, jest by ther river onct, an’ ther men was 
arfter him, but they didn’t ketch him ; they never 
ketched him.” 

Tkere w 7 as fine scorn in her voice, whether for the 
man or men w T as left to imagination. 

“ And yet he never brought the man back to life 
again ? ” Ada asked, quietly. 

The child lifted an astonished face to hers. 

“Course he didn’t. He didn’t want to after he’d 


214 


AT BROWN'S. 


took it ! ” she replied, indignantly. “ He couldn’t of 
done et ef he’d wanted to, anyhow ! ” 

“ Why not ? ” Miss Deering was looking at her in 
surprise, but Ada only smiled slowly and waited the 
child’s answer. 

“ ’Cause — why, he couldn’t — nobuddy ken ! He 
killed him deader ’n a door-nail, an’ ’taint likely he’d 
have him in his way again.” 

“ But why couldn’t he bring him back to life if he 
had wanted to ? ” still persisted Ada, quietly. 

An indignant flash was in the child’s eyes. The 
pretty lady was somehow” awfully stupid. Any one 
with common sense would know he couldn’t. 

“ Don’t know why he couldn't, but ’taint ’t all 
likely he’d w”ant too ! ” was the rapid reply. “ Ef 
I’d killed you ’taint ’t all likely I’d w”ant to bring you 
back to life, as you say ! ” 

“Wouldn’t you?” queried Ada, softly, stooping to 
meet squarely the lifted eyes. “ Sure, Ellen ? ” 

“ O, wrell, but you’re diff’rent ! ” was the impatient 
answer, w’itli a quick turning of the small head. 
“ ’Taint ’t all likely I’d w”ant to kill you. But ef I 
had—” 

“ But if you had,” Ada persisted, gently — “ what 
then, girlie ? ” 


UNCONSCIOUS INFLUENCE . 


215 


“ Why, ef I’d killed you ’cause you’d been gettin’ 
in my way an’ takin’ tlier work right outen my hands, 
an’ we’d been fightin’ an’ gettin’ drunk an’ drunker, 
an’ I’d made up my mind ter kill you, I’d never want 
ter get ye back, I’m sure ! He’d orter killed him. 
Tlier other man hadn’t no right ter take away his 
party — ” 

“ And you would do as he did ? ” Ada interrupted. 
“ Certain of that, too, Ellen ? ” 

“ Course ! ” — a toss of the frowzled head. “ I’d kill 
a feller as done that ter me’s quick as that man did ! 
I’m glad he done et! ” 

“ Still, you never could really give him back the 
life you had taken, no matter if you should want to 
ever and ever so much ! You could never give him 
back to his friends if you tried ever so hard and 
wanted to more than you could say ! You had killed 
him, and you might cry your eyes out, or live for 
years and years in the woods with plenty of time to 
think about it, and what a nice fellow he really was 
when he wasn’t angry or drunk, and you might want 
to give him back what you had taken ; but you never, 
never could if you tried with all your might ! ” 

There was no answer now. The child did not un- 
derstand fully what was said, but she knew enough 


216 


AT BROWN'S. 


to feel that this was a sort of call upon her sympathy 
and conscience that she could not answer, know as 
little even as she did about either. 

“ Murder is a dreadful thing, girlie,” Ada said, soft- 
ly. u What can you know about it, after all ? ” 

Then she added, laughing, to lighten any shadow 
she might have thrown over the child’s happiness 

“ Your mother will think I brought you out to 
give you a lecture, Ellen. And it hasn’t been much 
of a ride, after all, with this lazy horse. But we’ll go 
to Placid some day with a horse that can go. Should 
you like that? And you must come down to my 
room if you’d like to. Mrs. Brown will let you, I 
know, and we’ll have a sort of picnic over it ; and of 
course you must bring Jimmy. We want to know 
him, too. I want to know what sort of a boy it is 
that will let a girl drive him off ‘ Tiddler’s ground.’ 
This is your home, you say ? Good-night, Ellen. 
Tell your mother I wish she’d let me come and 
see her sometime. And don’t forget about you and 
Jimmy.” 

Ada laughed, and turned the horse’s head toward 
home, her face lightly flushed in the late light from 
the west. It was a dreary little home enough where 
the child lived, set among a “ cleared ” patch of what 


UNCONSCIOUS INFLUENCE. 


217 


had been a dense wood beside the road, with half a 
dozen dogs lying about in gaunt laziness. There 
were no shades at. the windows, nothing but a little 
half curtain of dingy calico to shut out the view^-a 
dreary little home, not a trace of cheeriness about it ; 
and the girl felt her heart stir with pity for the small 
bit of humanity set with her life out of any higher 
life. She turned to call some other message, just to 
sort of cheer the child, when the child herself stopped 
her. 

“Wait, miss ! ” she cried, running down the road- 
side to the side of the carriage, her freckled face some- 
how redder than the frowzled hair above it, a quiver 
on the lips that had been so defiant. “ Wait a min- 
ute, miss ! I didn’t tell yer, an’ I don’t know why I 
should now, on’y ye’ve been good to me an’ diff rent 
from ther others I ever see ! Ef I didn’t tell yer I 
never could eat a single one o’ these,” lifting the 
bundles she still clung to. “ I didn’t mean fer you 
to know, but I’ll tell ye. Marm never knew I w r as 
goin’ to-day ! I aint never asked her ef I might. I 
knowed there was a lot o’ work ter be did, an’ she’d 
never have said I could go, so I jest said I’d go my- 
self. There ! I didn’t never mean ye ter know, but 
I’ve telled ye!” 


218 


AT BE OWN'S. 


The flush deepened on Ada’s cheeks also as she 
leaned down out of the carriage, a smile on her lips 
so tender and sad and altogether incomprehensible to 
the child that the quick, swift tears drowned her eyes 
and made the sweet lady above her swim as in a mist, 
filling her with a sort of awe that made her heart 
thump suffocatingly under her torn jacket. She laid 
her soft, warm hand gently on the tangled head, letting 
it stray down until it lifted the chin and face full to 
her gaze. 

“ Poor little girlie ! ” she said, her voice like music 
to the astonished ears that had expected any thing 
but this reception of her declaration. “ Poor little 
girlie! You will tell her now, though, and say you 
are sorry, and I am O, so sorry ? And tell her if 
she will let you come of her own free will sometime 
when she can spare you I shall know she has for- 
given me ! ” 

The swimming mist resolved itself into the sweet 
face again. Amazement had dried any tears along 
the lashes. 

“ Pergive you ! She haint nothin’ ter fergive ye 
for ! She’ll lick me, I s’ pose, an’ keep me ’thout 
no supper, but she can’t have nothin’ to fergive 
ye for ! ” 


UNCONSCIOUS INFLUENCE. 


219 


“ But you will tell her, Ellen, now, and come to 
me as soon as she will let you ? I am so sorry ! ” 
Once more the tender, soft fingers touched the small 
head, and the tender eyes themselves were soft with 
tears as the horse started on at the low word from 
the driver, and the child was left standing staring after 
them too utterly amazed to move. 

“ Poor little thing ! ” Ada repeated, and her soft 
fingers were laid tenderly over the slim fingers in Miss 
Deering’s lap. “ Poor little thing, Clare ! That is 
what her life is leading to 1 ” 

“ Poor little thing! ” echoed Miss Peering, softly, 
her dark eyes deep with a light her friend had never 
before caught within them. “ Poor little thing, in- 
deed, Ada ; but what a friend she has right here at 
my side ! ” 

But Ada, smiling sadly, said nothing, and the sober 
gray horse found his own way down the hill and 
around to the sanatorium grounds, the hold on the 
reins so light he* could not feel it. 


220 


AT BROWN'S, 


CHAPTER XII. 

JACK’S ASPIRATIONS. 

“ Places are too much 

Or else too little for immortal man .” — Aurora Leigh. 

A sturdy rap sounded on Ada’s door, and her call 
to “come in ” brought Jack’s bright face and brilliant 
eyes in at the partly opened door. 

“ O,” she said, nodding laughingly, “ it’s you, 
Jack ! Come in, of course. I wasn’t sure who it 
might be, so I tried to cover my picture. I wont let 
every one see me in my painting rig, you know ! ” 

“ Yes,” Jack said, pausing awkwardly on the thresh- 
old. “El says you’re too stuck up to make friends of 
us — ” Then the boy stammered and stopped. This 
wasn’t loyalty to his sister, nor kindly to this new friend, 
who had given him charge of much, of her winter’s 
pleasure. “ But El didn’t mean any thing,” he hastened 
to add, fearing he had wounded the girl. “ She says 
lots she don’t mean, El does. It’s just her way, you 
know. I didn’t come to say that, though.” He laughed 
now, showing the even rows of white teeth between 


JACK'S ASPIRATIONS. 


221 


his parted boyish lips. “ I didn’t even come to ketch you 
doin’ your work, though I wish you’d let me see it — ” 

“ Certainly,” Ada said, filling his pause with quick 
kindness. “ We’re comrades, you remember, Jack, 
so I must not keep my work from you.” She 
smiled sunnily at him as he advanced into the room, 
his cap held nervously behind him, a flush on his face. 

He said nothing at first. He stood motionless be- 
fore the half-finished picture set in the light of the 
windows, not a muscle of his face changing or mov- 
ing, as though he scarcely understood the thing at 
which he was looking. 

Ada 'watched him in half amusement, wondering 
what this bright boy would have to say in way of 
criticism for her work. She believed in the judg- 
ment of young people, crude though it undoubtedly 
must be, for they would say frankly their thoughts 
when an older friend might hesitate for fear of wound- 
ing feelings. So she watched the boy half smilingly, 
his eyes intent upon the picture, a kindling fire within 
them. 

Presently he turned and faced her, his face quite 
red, his eyes dazzling in their brilliancy, as if there 
had come something or had gone something from his 
life with this glimpse into her work. 


222 


AT BROWN'S. 


“ There is somethin’ every body ken do ! ” he cried. 
“ There is somethin’ fer every body wot has ther way 
ter do. You painted this picture, Miss Ada, ’cause 
you’ve got ther time an’ ther money an’ ther way ter 
do’t. I could do somethin’ too ef I had ther way. 
I wont stay here on ther farm al’ays. I aint a-goin’ 
ter plod an’ dig an’ hoe an’ cut wood an’ them things 
al’ays ef I ken help et. ’Taint easy, I know, ter be 
any thin’ up here ’way from ther colleges an’ ther 
schools ; but I’ll be it somehow. I ken, I know, as 
well as you or them as lias done it. It’s in me, an’ 
it’ll get a chance some day. Ef ’twarn’t fer marm I’d 
gone long ago.” 

lie paused in confusion. His heart, witli its long- 
ing, had cried out to the girl, all its aspirations, all its 
ambitions, all its bitternesses, at sight of what she had 
done. Ever since the boarders had come to them 
in their quiet home-life, giving them glances and 
glimpses into what lay beyond their narrow existence, 
this boy’s soul had wakened within him, spurring him 
on to do and be as others had done and were doing.' 
These thoughts had slept in his own soul, though, save 
as guessed at by his mother with her insight into this 
one “good” son’s heart. He could not have his 
brothers or sister know of it ; they would j eer at him 


JACK'S ASPIRATIONS. 


223 


and never let the subject die, and their ridicule, al- 
though he was brave in his way, he felt he could not 
bear. The hopes lay too near his heart and life to 
withstand rough or harsh handling. The sight of 
this girl’s work opened the secret springs, and the cry 
broke from him that had been silent for so long 
within his breast. 

Ada’s warm heart almost failed her, watching him, 
listening to the swift, deep voice uttering its longing. 
If she had wakened such ambition, or helped to 
strengthen such, how should she satisfy the fierce 
hunger she was learning lay behind the stolid natures 
in the wilderness ? How could she answer this boy, 
not knowing how much might lie in her power to 
give. The smile left her lips and a set look came 
into the dark eyes opening so strangely among the 
mountains. It was a tenderly sympathetic face lifted 
to his, for he was above her in height in his four- 
teen years, but the half pain in the eyes touched 
his heart and silenced the bitter words. He laughed 
and turned away with a shrug of his shoulders. 

“Wot a lot o’ things a feller says, Miss Ada, when 
he don’t know it. I did think o’ lots o’ things I’d 
like ter do, though, when I see this picture. It must 
be nice to do such things and know they are good. 


224 


AT BROWN'S. 


You’ve got tlier mountings there, sure enough. I 
wish you could put ’em in when ther harvest moon is 
risin’ over Whiteface some evenin’. It’s a sight, I 
can tell you ! We aint got much time ter ’dmire ther 
mountings, but sech sights as them is worth stoppin’ ter 
look at. Marm is fond o’ them — ther mountings. She 
an’ El don’t ’gree ’bout that. El hates cold weather, an’ 
there’s cold weather al’ays in winter in ther mount- 
ings, ye know. Marm don’t mind it, but marm’s dif- 
ferent ! ” 

She nodded, smiling, but laid her hand detainingly 
on his arm as he was turning from the room. 

“ Let’s have it out some time, Jack, will you ? Let 
me help you if I can ; there’s so much room in the 
world, and so much need of such men as you will be. 
If you want to be something let’s see what it is, and 
who knows ? Strange things happen at times, and a 
boy who is determined to be something almost always 
is something before he dies ! May be there’ll be other 
things besides skating and waiting for bears for us 
this winter. We’re comrades — you mustn’t forget 
that — and will have to help each other so long as the 
compact holds. What do you want to be, Jack? ” 

lie shook his head. He had uttered his little cry, 
and now he must shut these thoughts up in his heart 


JACK'S ASPIRATIONS. 


225 


again. It wouldn’t do to talk about them when there 
was no chance for their fulfilling — not now, any way, 
not for years, may be. lie shook his head and laughed 
awkwardly. 

“ I didn’t come up to talk about myself, Miss Ada. 
I haven’t yet told you wot I did come fer, an’ Zack, 
lie wont wait long fer us. We’re goin’ down to tlier 
village fer a load o’ stuff come up on ther train, an’ 
ef you want ter go — o’ course you’ll have to walk 
back ; it’ll be a heavy load — but ef you want to go fer 
ther fun—” 

Ada laughed gayly. 

“ Want to go ? Of course I want to go, Jack ! Are 
you going on the big wagon \ Can Miss Deering go 
too ? I believe we enjoy a ride like that ever so much 
more than with a regular carriage ! We wont mind 
the walk back. It’s too cold for driving, anyway, this 
afternoon, and the walk will do us good. Of course 
we’ll go ! Shall I have time to change my dress ? ” 

“ If you hurry like any tilin’,” he said, disappearing 
out the door. “ Zack aint got the meekest temper, 
Miss Ada. Ef he wants to go at a certain minute 
you’ve got to be ready that very minute or you’ll get 
left behind ! I’ll go down an’ tell Miss Deering an’ 

meet you down at ther corner. Don’t be late, fer it ’ll 
•15 


226 


AT BROWN'S. 


be lots o’ fan. Zack, he drives like all possessed, an’ 
we’ll just fly down there. It ’ll make you hungry fer 
dinner, too, an’ that ’ll please inarm, yon know.” 

He was down the stairs now, and Ada laughed to 
herself, a very warm spot in her heart for this boy 
who could put his wishes under his control for the 
sake of his mother, and be as cheery and happy as 
though longings and a boy’s aspirations were among 
the undiscovered things of the world. She would 
have gone if they had been obliged to walk back five 
miles instead of two, just to please the boy, he was 
so eager for them to enjoy the fun. 

The day had changed indeed. The bright after- 
noon of the day before had been followed by as raw 
and cold a morning as was possible to the chilly mount- 
ain air. There was no sunlight, and the clouds were 
evidently filled with snow. But the girls did not 
hesitate for the weather. They had made up their 
minds to be out-of-doors in the piney air as much as 
they possibly could during the winter, for it was one 
of the orders at the sanatorium that the patients should 
be in the air as much as they could ; and as for Ada, 
although she had no rules to follow, yet she was as 
determined to get all the healthfulness of the bracing 
air and balsam odors of the hills and woods. They 


JACK'S ASPIRATIONS. 


227 


both in different ways had come to the mountains for 
health, and there was but one way for both to obtain it. 

Jack was out of the sound of Ada’s call for him not 
to go down for her friend, for she could go herself as 
soon as she had changed her dress for her walking- 
skirt. So she turned to her dressing with a smile for 
the willingness of the boy who was to be her comrade, 
so they had both decided, during the months to come, 
and for whom, she now said to herself, she would find 
some food for his hunger. 

“ It’s dreadful,” she said to herself, as she hung up 
her painting-dress and hurried into her short mount- 
ain-dress, “it’s just dreadful to find so many half 
starving and nothing for them to eat ! Jack’s such a 
bright fellow, I wish I could do something to help 
him. May be there will come a way before I leave. 
He’li finish telling me what he started on sometime. 
I shall mistake Jack very much if he doesn’t.” And 
with this comforting thought for the boy’s welfare 
she caught up the Tam o’ Shanter she wore in her 
care-free life and ran down the stairs lightly as she 
would have done when a child at home. “ It seems 
to me there is more in this life than in the old life at 
home,” she thought, wonderingly, us she passed the 
sitting-room door and smiled to Mrs. Brown, who sat 


228 


AT BROWN'S. 


within paring apples for the pies. u I never had so 
many real people around me before.” 

Zack was down at the barn just running the 
lines through the rings and tying them together for 
starting. 

“ Come ahead, Miss Ada ! ” he called to her “ Ther 
train ’ll be in ’fore we get down ef we don’t hurry. 
Can’t promise ye no handsome turn-out, but ef ye 
care to go in this — ” 

“ It’s ever so much more fun to ride on a box- wagon 
than otherwise,” she said, laughing merrily as she 
scrambled to the bottom and clung on while the horses 
started forward suddenly and in earnest. . “ But we 
don’t want to bother you, Mr. Brown.” 

“ Sho ! Taint no bother,” he retorted, brusquely. 
“ Git up, thar, Jerry ? Miss Deering goin’ ? Thought’s 
much. You an’ lier’s powerful friends. It’s nice to 
have friends away from home this way. Git up, thar, 
Bill ! It’s too cold fer much ridin’ ’tliout bein’ power- 
ful wrapped up. We have some pretty cold days 
sometimes here. You aint afraid o’ ther cold, though, 
I remember.” 

“ Ho,” Ada laughed, brightly. “ I like cold weather, 
Mr. Brown. It makes you ambitious, and you just 
have to keep doing something to help freezing. It’s 


JACK'S ASPIRATIONS. 


229 


good to be stirred up once in a while ; we’d stagnate 
if there were summer the year through.” 

“ That’s wot I tell El, but she don’t b’lieve et ! She 
does so hate cold weather! Wont find many o’ tlier 
girls ’round hyar’s as brave as ye ter go out this 
weather. El ’d think she was pretty nigh killed ef we 
asked her to ride down to tlier village such a day ! 
Hyar’s them others. Jack aint likely ever to get 
left, I can tell ye! Hurry up, Miss Deering; we’re 
in a powerful sight o’ hurry ! Tlier train ’ll be in, 
I’m afraid, now ’fore we git down, an’ I must git 
to tlier store ’fore she gits in ! Go ’long with ye, 
Jerry, there ! Get aboard, Jack ! ’Taint a fine rig, 
this, ladies, but it’s tlier best thing ter git a load from 
tlier freight!” He laughed good-naturedly, and the 
girls joined him, always ready for a ride in this wild 
fashion where there was no side to the wagon and the 
horses kept a speed that caused them to be in constant 
fear of falling off or being switched off at the turn- 
ings. “ Git up, tliar, Billy ! ” 

Further down the road young Maynard, on his way 
up to the house, standing aside for the flying horses 
to pass, caught sight of the girls, and with a merry 
shout grasped the pole at the side and swung himself 
aboard. 


230 


AT BROWN'S. 


“ Room for me, Mr. Brown ? It isn’t often one gets 
a chance to call upon young ladies on a box-wagon. 
Wliat in the world are you thinking of, Miss Ada ? 
And what would Art say if he could see you, you 
sedate creature, clinging to a huge wagon for all you 
are worth in as wild a fashion as an Indian could do ? 
I’d give — what wouldn’t I give to catcli a picture of 
you at this minute ! How Ledyard will laugh when 
I tell him ! ” 

“ I don’t care ! ” Ada said, with a little air of sauci- 
ness delightful to see. “ If Arthur wants to laugh 
because we are having a delightful ride, why, let him 
laugh. Seems to me you’re in the same wagon, Mr. 
Maynard, in spite of your amazement.” 

“ Couldn’t expect me to hesitate where you are brave 
enough to venture,” was the quick retort. “ Besides, 
you did look refreshingly unconventional, and I wanted 
to know how such a free ride would feel. Aren’t you 
cold, you two ? You are as blooming as roses, in spite 
of the cold. One would imagine that this were your 
native element, Ada, at the way you agree with it.” 

“All personal remarks prohibited,” Ada said, 
laughing. “Where is Arthur this morning? And 
why should you come up, when it’s such a delightful 
day for hunting woodcock — ” 


JACK'S ASPIRATIONS. 


231 


“ How do you know so much about sport or hunt- 
ing?” demanded the } r oung man, gayly. “ Have you 
been guilty of tramping among the mountains with 
a dog and gun, in search of game? You’re capable 
of almost any thing, but I did not think this of you. 
Miss Deering, do you allow such dangerous sports 
for this friend of yours ? At home, of course, we are 
very watchful that no harm should befall her, but 
away up here in the wilderness — ” 

“ Do be sensible, Robert ! ” Ada here interrupted, 
with a gay laugh. “ Where is Arthur, and why isn’t 
he with you? I begin to firmly believe that you 
have not told me the real story about his engagement 
with the other fellows to-day, but that he was injured 
yesterday — ” 

“ Pray, don’t get excited, Ada,” was the laughing 
rejoinder. “ If you are not careful you will most 
certainly fall off. Here’s a turn in the road that 
will take the strength of a Hercules or the strategy 
of a general to circumvent. Look out there, Miss Deer- 
ing ! Really, Ada, this is terrible for you to place 
your life in danger by such reckless riding. Do find 
some way to make her civilized again, Miss Deering. 
Her friends at home would be forever on the point 
of receiving a telegram recounting her tragic death, 


232 


AT BROWN'S. 


or some such horror, should they know of this fashion 
for free rides ! ” 

“ But you haven’t taken the least notice of iny 
question in regard to Arthur,” Ada said, persistently. 
“ I am almost as certain that he was injured as if I 
had seen it — ” 

“ Couldn’t be more certain, surely,” here interposed 
Mr. Maynard, with a grim truth* in the words that 
the girl did not recognize. 

“ And I think you might answer me, Robert May- 
nard. If you don’t — ” 

“ If I don’t, what then ? Answer speedily, fair 
friend. Suspense on such a vital question might 
cause me to lose my faith in human nature — ” 

“ Do be sensible ! ” was the rather short response. 
“Is Arthur Ledyard all right or not, Robert May- 
nard ? Surely you can answer such a perfectly plain 
question as that with as much plainness.” 

“ I could,” the young man answered, with provok- 
ing slowness ; “ but I know of no compulsory meas- 
ures to force me to do so. But, jesting aside, Ada, 
Art’s, all right this morning, and as cross as two bears. 
He’s up at the hotel waiting for some of the fellows 
to make up their minds in regard to a proposition 
he has made them, and as they have never been 


JACK'S ASPIRATIONS. 


233 


hurried in their lives you know the consequences on 
his good nature. He’s fuming, too, because he isn’t 
able to come over and call on you to find out liow you 
bear up after the excitement. He’s in a towering 
rage, I assure you, and it was almost to save my life 
I escaped from his room and came over myself to see 
if you still live, or if the reckless animal had given 
you and Miss Deering the spasmodic hysterics, lie’ll 
be glad to know that you still live, though I presume 
all the thanks I shall get will be a storm of anger. 
You’ve seen Art in a tempest of madness before, so 
you can realize what that means ; but Miss Deering, 
knowing nothing about him, would be perfectly 
amazed at the unreasonableness of such an apparently 
good-natured fellow. lie’s like the lion-tamers, Miss 
Deering. He sits down and stares at you and lets 
you have your say, if you happen to have any say, 
and then lie sets his eyes upon you and has his say ; 
and if you haven’t a pretty good idea of his strength 
of expression when lie has finished you are incapable 
of judging. Hamlet in his wrath is nothing when 
compared to him. If the fellows get out of the room 
with their lives they will be brave. Don’t you worry 
yourself about Art, Ada ; lie’s quite well able to take 
care of himself and fight any giant that might 


234 


AT BE OWN'S. 


rise in his path here in the wilderness. It’s a fine 
hotel up there, though — better by far than one 
would expect out here among the pine forests. And 
you have good attention as well. 1 haven’t seen 
much of the mountains themselves, though, and 
may call on you any time to show me about them and 
explain their mysteries, Miss Deering. May I come ? 
and will you honestly tell me any bits of history 
you may happen to know about them ? Ledyard said 
I’d have unexceptionable cheek if I asked you about 
it, anyway ; but Ledyard’s got the mad blues, and isn’t 
accountable for what he says. If you say it is all 
right, and that I may ask you whatever I like about 
the hills and places here, it’s simply none of his bus- 
iness. I'd honestly like nothing better than to tell 
him so, too. Give me the chance, Miss Deering, and 
I’ll bring down his pride of reasoning like a broken 
temple when I get back to the hotel — ” 

“I thought Arthur had an engagement to-day, 
Robert,” Ada said, quietly. “ If he has an engage- 
ment it isn’t likely it is one to keep him at the hotel. 
I wish I had some way to find out truly if he is all 
right.” 

Her eyes fell on Jack, sitting just back of her, and 
her face lightened. Here was her champion and 


JACK'S ASPIRATIONS. 


235 


comrade. He would go if she should ask. him and 
find out for her what she wished to know re^ardin^ 
the friend who, she knew perfectly well, would take 
any measures to keep from her the truth should there 
be reason for her not knowing it. If he were in- 
jured in any w r ay he would never let her know. And 
if he were injured — she leaned suddenly toward Jack, 
her eyes very bright, her voice very soft as she spoke 
to him. 

“ Will you do something for me, Jack ? ” she asked, 
her eyes very wistful. “ Can you do it? There is a 
friend of mine over at the new hotel who, I am 
afraid, was very much hurt yesterday by an accident, 
and who would never let me know if he could help 
it. How, will you go over there — get a horse from 
the stables down below — and go over and find out if 
there is any thing the matter with him ? He’d never 
let me know of his own free will, and I would wish 
to know. We’ve been friends ever since we were 
born, Jack, and I would want to know if he is hurt.” 

“ O’ course,” said Jack, knowingly, with a shake of 
his curly black head. “I ken go over well’s not, 
Miss Ada. Can’t go, though, till Zack gets ther load 
on, but ef that ’ll do I’ll go willin’. What’s his name, 
Miss Ada?” 


236 


AT BROWN'S. 


Mr. Maynard here interrupted their quiet conver- 
sation with a sly wink at the boy. 

“ If you’re planning any mischief, you two,” he 
said, u we simpty wont have it, will we, Miss Deer- 
ing? I see Ada’s grown so out of bonds up here 
that she is utterly independent ; but so long as I am 
near to protect her — ” 

“ You are not my protector,” Ada here joined in, 
laughing. “ It’s Arthur has that post of honor, Mr. 
Maynard. Don’t mind him, Jack, but listen to what 
I have to say. It’s none of your concerns, anyhow, 
Robert. Jack and I are comrades, and of course I 
tell him every thing. We have plenty of plans for 
the winter. You’d open your eyes, perhaps, if I 
should tell you half of them. Wouldn’t he, Jack? 
And Miss Deering will never give us away. She’s 
as willing to get the best out of our stay here in the 
mountains with its delightful life as w r e are ; aren’t 
you, Miss Deering? And you can have your sport 
with your guns all day and every day of your stay, 
Robert Maynard, but you’ll not get the best of the wild 
life, after all, as we girls and Jack will. There are 
pleasures in the winter up here that the city can never 
give. I am glad I came here, as long as I had to go 
somewhere. I shall have so much to remember.” 


JACK'S ASPIRATIONS. 


237 


But down in her heart she was thinking of the 
strange lives that had come under her observation, 
been placed almost in her hands during her short stay 
there, and especially of this boy beside her, with his 
ambitions and aspirations, and, above all, the strength 
to set them aside for his mother. 


238 


AT BROWN'S. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

LOYALTY. 

“ Be still and strong, 

0 man, my brother ! hold thy sobbing breath, 

And keep thy soul’s large window pure of wrong.” 

— Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 

“ See here, Jack,” Mr. Maynard said, impressively, 
as he joined the boy down by the station after seeing 
the girls well on their way home — “see here, Jack, 
I know perfectly well that Miss Ada asked you to go 
over to the hotel and find out what I have no inten- 
tion she shall find out. You’re not to go, remember. 
She has some absurd idea that Mr. Ledyard has been 
injured, and she will find out if anyone can; but — 
we will not let her find out. You are to go over 
there — so she has asked you — and discover if I have 
been deceiving her as to this friend’s health. You 
are not to go — so I tell you — for she is to know noth- 
ing about his health. These are my orders, Jack 
Brown ; will you obey them ? ” 

The boy looked up to the man’s face steadily with 


LOYALTY. 


239 


the frankest soul in the black eyes ; then he said, 
slowly and distinctly, with as much impressiveness of 
manner as the man had used : 

“No, Mr. Maynard, I can’t. I've give Miss Ada 
my word to go for her, an’ all ther friends in creation 
can’t make me change my mind. I’m sorry, but I 
can’t do it — ” 

“ But you will do it ! ” The man was flushing an- 
grily now ; his gray eyes flashed into the black ones 
meeting his steadily. “ You’ve got to do it, Jack, or 
you’re no true friend of Miss Ada. If she should 
find out that Ledyard is truly hurt — and he is — she 
would fret her gentle life out, repenting that he had 
placed his life under the feet of the horse she was 
driving. She hasn’t told you about it? Well, per- 
haps it’s as well. Anyhow, Mr. Ledyard risked his 
neck to save her life and that of her friend, and he 
certainly has some claim upon our obedience when 
he wishes specially for her not to be told. He 
isn’t going to die ” — catching the swift question 
in the boy’s eyes — “but lie’s hurt so badly it will 
take more than a day to bring him around all right. 
You’re not to go up there, remember. If she asks 
why—” 

“ She wont ask why,” interrupted the boy, sturdily, 


240 


A T BRO WN'S. 


“for I’m goin’, as she told me to; an’ there wont be 
no cause for tellin’ a made-up lie — ” 

“ It’s no lie,” was the hot rejoinder. “ It’s no lie, 
Jack ; but if it were it ’d be better than to have your 
gentle friend worry when there is no need.” 

“ She told me — or she asked me — ter go up to ther 
new hotel an’ ask about her friend, an’ I’m goin’,” was 
the quiet answer, with a stubborn look around the 
mouth that the man began to realize might cause 
him some trouble to argue away. “ I aint a-goin’ to 
deceive her fer nobuddy. We’re comrades — she said 
so herself this very mornin’ — an’ taint like a comrade 
ter give ther other a lie ’stead o’ truth. I’d like ter 
do ’s you want, Mr. Maynard, but I can’t go agen 
Miss Ada’s wishes.” 

“The most absurd thing I ever heard ! ” rejoined 
Mr. Maynard, angrily. “ You’d stand the rack, I 
suppose, and the thumb-screws and hot plowshares, 
and all those ridiculous things, I presume, in your 
flighty dream of honor. If you’re the fellow I take 
you for, though, you’ll do nothing of the sort. If it’s 
going to make Miss Ada unhappy to know the truth, 
what reason can you have for telling her when it’s 
as easy as two peas to keep it from her? You may 
say, if you choose, that I met you on your way and 


LOYALTY. 


241 


impressed you with the truth of my statement. I’ll 
take the responsibility of the lie, if there is any lie, 
which I fail to see. For my part, however, I have not 
yet told her a lie in regard to the matter ; I simply told 
the truth without the whole truth. Ever hear of 
that, Jack ? Well, you’ll learn it soon enough if ever 
you go out in the world, and remember that I told 
you of it. It’s the ‘ wise-as-a-serpent’ business, this 
telling not all the truth when there’s no need. Life 
is a tough things with plenty of suffering in it, without 
our trying to help it along. Come, Jack, my lad, 
promise me you’ll not do such an absurd, such an 
unkind thing as to tell Miss Ada about Mr. Ledyard. 
I’ve told you honestly that lie was injured ; isn’t that 
enough? You may say that you didn’t see him, or 
that he is out with his companions — doubtless he has 
had a falling out with them — or any thing your fertile 
brain can suggest — for you have a fertile brain, Jack 
Brown, and you’ll save Miss Ada any amount of 
trouble and fret. If you’re her knight-errant you 
should lay down your life rather than cause her one 
throb of pain.” 

He was laughing at him. Jack lifted up his curly 
black head as proudly as though he were in truth the 

knight he was called in this man’s ridicule. There 
16 


242 


AT BROWN'S. 


was a flash in his eyes and a flush on his face that 
won Mr. Maynard’s admiration, put out, as he un- 
doubtedly was, with him for this stubborn resistance. 
His voice W'as ringing and clear with boyish spirit as 
he made his answer unhesitatingly, a nobility stamped 
on the rugged brown boyish face that must shame 
the man enticing him to the soil of liis soul. 

“I’m sorry, Mr. Maynard. I’d do a’most any thin’ 
fer you, but I wont tell Miss Ada no lie ; no, sir, not 
even for you. She’s al’ays told me ther truth, an’ 
why should I go an’ make up some sort o’ lie fer her 
when she trusts me to do as she asked ? I don’t mind 
your laughin’ at me. I’ve stood bein’ laughed at ’fore 
now, and ’taint ’s bad as bein’ ’shamed o’ your own self 
fer not doin’ square. I aint no knight, as you talk 
’bout; I’m only Jack Brown, but I’ll tell ther truth 
straight ahead, ’s long as there’s any truth ter tell.” 

Mr. Maynard struck a stone in liis path with a vicious 
kick, and there was a heavy frown on his brows. He 
made no answer to this frank outburst of boyish spirit 
at first, but walked on with Jack in silence, pondering 
for some way to make him yield this absurd code of 
honor — he, simple, country-bred Jack Brown, a boy 
who knew absolutely nothing of the 'world or its ways 
and the strain it was forced to make many a time on 


LOYALTY. 


243 


the laws of truth and honor because of a false idea of 
chivalrous manhood toward the women the same 
world termed its weaker element — he, absurd, ridic- 
ulous, brown-faced Jack ! He laughed discordantly as 
he thought of the daring spirit that could resist his 
urgent words for the good of the girl this boy termed 
so proudly his “ comrade.” He would win him over 
yet ; there wasn’t a boy — certainly not a boy such as 
this one — who would hold out long before his persua- 
sion. His hand involuntarily sought his vest-pocket, 
and when it came out there was a quick effort to pass 
into the rough hand of the boy a gold coin that would 
grant him many a wish of his heart ; but he was not 
prepared for its reception. Evidently he did not 
dream of the depth to this boy’s character. Jack’s 
eyes were blazing, and the flush of boyish annoy- 
ance at being laughed at by this handsome, frank- 
spoken man, deepened to the flaming red of wrath. 
He struck the coin from the man’s fingers almost be- 
fore they had touched his own, and the ringing voice 
was like the breath of the old war spirit as he cried 
stormily : 

“ An’ you think I call myself Miss Ada’s friend, 
an’ ’d be bribed to do her harm ? Do you think, Mr. 
Maynard, thet I’d ever dare look in her kind eyes or 


244 


AT BROWN'S. 


see the smile on her face again ef I done this thing 
you want me to ? Mebbe Ihn only Jack Brown, an’ 
know nothin’ special, as I s’pose you think — they all 
do seem ter think so — but ef I am I’ve got a heart an’ 
soul an’ a mother, sir, wot ’d break her heart ef she 
thought her boy ’d do sech a mean, contemptible, cow- 
ardly thing as lie ! No, sir ! I aint much, but I’m goin’ 
ter be, an’ ’taint ther way ter start with a lie on yer soul 
an’ ther knowin’ that ye’ve done ther meanest thing to 
a friend ye could do. Miss Ada asked me to go over to 
ther hotel an’ find out about her friend there, an’ I’m 
goin’ in spite o’ yer words an’ yer bribin’. Good-morn- 
in’ ! I’m sorry to find she’s got a friend wot ’d do sech 
a thing as you’ve tried to do, anyhow, Mr. Maynard. 
’Taint ’t all likely I’ll tell her ! ” a fine scorn in his 
voice as the flaming eyes met the lowering dark eyes 
above him, and the face that was flushing now with 
other than anger. “ ’Taint ’t all like I’ll go back on 
you any more’ii I would on her, only — I’m sorry she 
can’t trust you.” 

lie turned away from the tall, silent, disconcerted 
man, and walked away out of sight with his head up 
and his soul burning within him at the wrong the 
man would have him do Miss Ada in deceiving her 
when she had so trusted him, the fire still blazing in 


LOYALTY. 


245 


his eyes and the color warm in his cheeks. He had 
liked this big, genial inan very much during the few 
minutes they were together that morning coming down 
on the “ hitch,” and it was not only the fact that he 
had turned ont no true friend of his friend, but that 
he had discovered distrust of him in these few mo- 
ments alone with him down by the station, while he 
was urging him to wrong his soul and his friend. 
He had a boy’s admiration for manhood, and this 
man had seemed such a fine specimen that he could 
not find his mistake without a sore heart. To be 
sure, he had found out from him that Miss Ada’s 
friend was truly injured and unable to come to her, 
and he might have given up the trip to the hotel, 
which was not by any means a short or easy walk — 
for of course he would never think of hiring from the 
stable at her expense — and he could have returned 
home with his brother and told her what he had 
learned without going further ; but he had promised 
her he would go and see her friend for himself if he 
could, and even in that he would not break his 
word, for Jack had a longing down in his heart to 
be a man worth being some day, and even in these 
slight things where other boys — where even men 
— would not have hesitated to yield he was stern 


246 


AT BR0W2TS. 


in his following out of the strict road of integrity 
he had mapped for himself. He was not, by any 
means, “good;” he didn’t specially care for church, 
though he went occasionally because “ inarm ” wanted 
him to go ; and he had few influences to high living, 
but this longing of his for his life held him steady 
and sure in the straight road where there must be no 
turning aside for easier paths. 

“ But it’s mean of him to try to make me go back 
on Miss Ada,” he still protested to himself, trying to 
argue around the manhood he had so admired. “ It 
w T as downright mean fer him to try ter make me act 
mean to Miss Ada. He knows well ’s I do that she’d 
find et out sometime or ’notlier, an’ wot ’d I say 
then ? Besides, ’taint ’t all likely I’d do secli a thing 
’gainst her fer him, with all his old money. An’ tryin’ 
ter bribe me, too, ’s though I was some sort o’ thief! 
’s though I’d tech his gold fer doin’ secli a thing ! 
Et’s easy ’nough fer him ter talk ’bout givin’ his life 
ter keep her from suff’rin’, but et’s easier ter say them 
things ’n ’tis ter keep straight to wot you’ve promised 
when you know et’s goin’ ter make her suffer, an’ you 
can’t help et ’cause you’ve give your word ter do wot 
she’s asked.” 

He struck sturdily into the rough road around by 


LOYALTY. 


247 


the forests, and marched as if lie were in truth 
some knight in search of the truth and the proving 
of the purity of the world, his face lighting by and by 
with the light heart that would not lie under a cloud 
even when his life's greatest desire was withheld from 
him. He began to whistle presently, too, clear as the 
high notes of some wildwood bird in its exultant 
burst of gladness, the music ringing through the silence 
of the forest like the drum-beat of the souls in the 
camp of life, his eyes dancing again with the freedom 
of the wilderness that was forming his broad soul in its 
own magnificent fashion, roughly hewn, doubtless, but 
sturdy of frame and fearless of harm as the grand 
oaks and pines on the lonely heights. 

“ Wot’s tlier sense in bein’ down-sperited jest ’cause 
a feller’s asked you to do sutliin’ you can’t do, when 
you haven’t done et ? Miss Ada aint ther one ter 
’xpect a feller ter give up whistlin’ an’ bein’ ’s happy 
as he ken be. She’d jest smile like she smiles occa- 
sional, an’ say — I am sartain sure she’d say et — ‘ That’s 
right, Jack. Keep up heart, an’ et’ll all come out 
right as a screw when ye know liow ter use tlier 
driver.’ Et’s her way, an’ she can’t help et no more’n 
a feller can help whistlin’ when .tlier aint nothin’ 
special ter be done.” 


248 


AT BROWN'S. 


And the hands went deeper in the pockets and the 
whistle grew clearer and sweeter and more the echo 
of the birds deep in the heart of the forest, and the 
light was on his face, and the flush had died from the 
angry cheeks and dazzling black eyes, and he was just 
happy-hearted Jack Brown going on an errand as if 
his life depended upon his going swiftly. 

The walk, to be sure, was long and hard, but he was 
a boy with young life and blood in his veins, and it 
was nothing to him. He reached the hotel in reality 
almost before he realized that he was there, and en- 
tered the office with a somewhat beating heart to fulfill 
his errand. Was Mr. Ledyard in ? Yes, Mr. Ledyard 
was in. He hardly thought, the clerk said, that he 
would be allowed to see him unless it were on impor- 
tant business, as he was unwell and not in the mood 
for seeing every one who might call upon him. He 
had given orders to that effect, so the boy could see 
how impossible it was — But he must see him. Then his 
errand was important ? From whom did he come, and 
what word should be sent up ? No word \ He would 
go up himself — those were his orders ? But the clerk 
did not think it possible for that to answer ; he must 
give some other message before he could be allowed. 
But he would go ? That was a strange message* surely, 


LOYALTY. 


249 


and the young man smiled at its audacity. But pres- 
ently he relented, and sent a call-boy up to discover 
whether or not Mr. Ledyard would receive this strange 
boy who would take no refusal. He was allowed to go 
up presently, though the message sent down was to the 
effect that it must be very important business, as he 
did not care to receive strangers and would not listen 
to nonsense. The boy who escorted him up to the 
young man’s room left him at the door with an inward 
desire to learn how the invalid would receive him, but 
this was out of his power, so he simply went down- 
stairs again, pondering at every step over the strange 
fellow who would go up whether he could or no. 
But Jack, entering Mr. Ledyard’s handsome apart- 
ments, forgot every thing else save the errand on 
which he come, and the possibility of as rough treat- 
ment as Mr. Maynard had accorded him not long 
before. Arthur looked him over crossly as he en- 
tered and advanced into the room with awkward 
but sturdy steps. Arthur Ledyard was out of hu- 
mor, and he could not for the life of him imagine 
what this boy could have to say to him. Cer- 
tainly he had never seen him before, and he had 
not so many acquaintances in the village as to expect 
a messenger from one of them. Then his thoughts 


250 


A T BRO WN'S. 


returned to Ada in the old farm-house, and he began 
to wonder with some annoyance and some curiosity if 
this boy had come from her — if she had dared take 
things into her own small fingers and discover whether 
or not he were deceiving her. lie laughed at the 
thought, a pleasant, amused laugh that gave the boy 
courage to fulfill his commands. 

“ Mr. Ledyard, sir ? ” 

“ That’s my name,” with a continuation of the 
smile on the frank, fair face turned toward him from 
the cushions of the chair where he was reclining. 
“ That’s m3 7 name, my bo3 r ; what’ll you have with 
me ? All my bills are paid up, and I owe no man any 
thing — ” 

Jack shook his head, joining in the good-natured 
laughter. 

“ I aint come on business, sir,” he said, gravety, in 
quick explanation. “ I come from Miss Ada — 3 t ou 
know Miss Ada; she’s stayin’ to our house this winter 
— an’ she asked me ter come over an’ find out if you 
are hurt from the accident yesterdaj r ? She said fer 
me to tell you thet she aint sure o’ ther truth Mr. May- 
nard telled her when he said } t ou was detained by 
business. She said if you were it was the first time 
since she had known you that such a thing had hap* 


LOYALTY. 


251 


pened, and that, although she would rather have it 
business than injury that kept you from cornin’ 
over to tlier house, she wanted to be certain sure it 
was that. She’s so kind-hearted, you know, sir, she 
couldn’t bear to think — ” 

He paused in some confusion. These last few 
words were not in her message, and he was not in the 
habit of telling his thoughts to every one. 

Arthur smiled in broad amusement, both at Ada’s 
independence and at this boy’s sturdy defense of her. 
He held out his hand laughingly — his left hand, but it 
was warm with friendship, as he said, frankly : 

“ And who are you, may I inquire, who so safely 
relies upon Miss Ada’s kindness of heart, and would 
defend her from any purely feminine curiosity in so 
trying to prove my friend’s truth ? I’m glad to know 
you, anyway. Jack? I like that name. How are 
you, Jack ? Here’s my hand on our friendship. I 
didn’t come off scathless from the fray, tell her, 
but it’s really nothing of any account — that is, it’ll 
keep me in the house from the shooting for a few days, 
but it’s honestly nothing serious. The horse pulled so 
hard she sort of pulled me out of joint and made me 
sore. She isn’t to worry, and she must in future be- 
lieve implicitly in Maynard’s wish to stick to the truth, 


252 


AT BROWN'S. 


in spite of liis endeavor to keep her from any worry. 
Maynard’s a good fellow. She can really trust him to 
look out for her, aud I’ll come over as soon as I feel 
like leaving my den. The air of the Adirondacks, 
tell her, is making me lazy, and I have no wish to 
scrabble with the world for a few days. Wait,” he 
added, quickly, with a swift afterthought, as Jack was 
turning away, having done his errand most success- 
fully, “ wait just a minute or so longer, will you, J ack ? 
I’d like to send her something as token of my good 
faith. There isn’t a flower to be had in the entire 
place, but I’ll give you an order for some fruit — girls 
always like sweets, you know ! ” He laughed pleasant- 
ly, and Jack felt his heart go out to him as it had not 
toward Robert Maynard with all his good-fellowship. 
“You know, of course, where is the best place to go ; 
I’ll only put down the sort of fruits to get, and you 
can choose the place to get them. Here’s the needful, 
Jack, and may be you like fruit, too.” He would not 
wound the boy’s pride — for that he had pride he was 
certain under those brilliant black eyes and that frank 
face — with an offer of money for himself, but if he 
could put it in this way — and he liked the boy. He 
knew Ada had a champion in him without being told. 
He liked the swift assurance that her heart was so 


LOYALTY. 


253 


kind she wanted to know for certain of the welfare of 
her friend. “ I’m a pretty big boy now, but I have a 
ravenous fondness for fruit still,” he added, gayly, to 
cover any words the boy might say. “ After all, the 
girls are not the only ones who have a fondness for 
the sweets of life, are they, Jack? All right; don’t 
forget my message, and come over again without orders 
from head-quarters. I’d like to have yon come, Jack. 
Don’t forget. Good-bye. Yon can get a ride down 
to the village with some of the teams going down, I 
think. Ask at the office ; tell them I told yon to. 
It’s a long walk down there, and over to the house 
will make you late for dinner. O, I know you’re hun- 
gry. You couldn’t help being hungry after such a 
walk. Good-bye, Jack. Tell Miss Ada that I’ll be 
over very soon. It really isn’t much, and Dr. Truman 
is managing me finely. Good-bye.” 

The boy went out, closing the door softly, his face 
a study in its pleasure. Here was a man who could 
be brave and true at the same time, and who was not 
ashamed of telling the truth even to save his friend 
from worry. Jack liked that spirit. That was the 
sort of a man he would be some time if he had or 
could make the opportunity. He would remember 
it when he was down-hearted, with his wishes ap- 


254 


AT BBOWN’S. 


parently no nearer fruition than they had been a 
year ago. He stopped at the office, as Mr. Ledyard 
had said, and as there was a team just going down 
he caught the ride with great enjoyment, sitting 
up on the seat with the driver, gossiping with his 
cheery voice and blithe laugh that made the man an- 
swer unconsciously in like manner as they drove 
swiftly down to the village. 

“ Hext time you’re goin’ over happen along at the 
right time an’ we’ll go up together,” the man said, as 
the boy leaped down at the entrance to the livery- 
stable and started for the store to fill Mr. Ledyard’s 
orders as to the fruit for Ada, a pride in his heart that 
the command had been given him. 

“ It’s ’most as good ’s though I was gettin’ ’em for 
her myself,” he thought, proudly. “ I like that Mr. 
Ledyard. He’s the right sort of a man. I’m glad 
Miss Ada’s got a friend like him. He wouldn’t lie 
fer her.” 

And Arthur Ledyard was sitting alone in his room 
when the boy had gone pondering on the strangeness 
of life something after the fashion of Mr. Maynard’s 
frank arguments of the previous afternoon. Mr. May- 
nard’s words had made a deeper impression on him 
than he cared to admit even to this friend of his who 


LOYALTY. 


255 


had, as he said, been through school and college with 
him and who knew pretty much of his life — as much 
as one man could know of another. And here was 
this boy, this uneducated, brown-faced farmer’s son, 
just in his teens, proving to him by his face and 
manner the nobility there is in the world, rail at it as 
we will, and that the standard of manhood is as deeply 
rooted in the heart of the boy as of the man. And 
he was wondering, too, how much influence over this 
boy’s life his gentle friend might have during the 
months to come ; wondering vaguely why it was and 
how it was that she had strengthened more than one 
life in its struggles upward while other girls — not all 
of them, by any means, but so many of them — devoted 
their arts and smiles to the pulling down of many a 
life that might have been made noble under such 
kindly influence. And his thoughts wandered to this 
Graham, who, against poverty and spare time, was 
working his life out after his own standard, not made 
an atom less noble because, perhaps ,life had laid fewer 
gifts of riches at his feet. 

While Robert Maynard, striding back up to the 
hotel after his conversation with Jack, too much dis- 
turbed by the boy’s victory over his manhood to think 
of hiring a conveyance, puzzled in much the same 


256 


AT BROWN'S. 


way over the difference in lives according to the 
strength or weakness of their characters, whether it 
he in a farmer’s son or in the son of a monarch. And 
he said to himself, striding along with bent head, deep 
in thought, that it might be, after all, nobler to be a 
farmer’s son with this bravery of spirit than to be the 
wealthy pet of society, possessing any and every thing 
that money could buy, but lacking the strength shown 
by this country lad, losing, in spite of wealth, the best 
and purest and truest of life. And thus arguing with 
himself j pondering on the mystery of it all, J ack passed 
him on his seat with the driver of the carriage, and he 
lifted his hat to him with a smile that asked pardon 
plainly as words, in as graceful and impressive a man- 
ner as he would have removed his hat to the president 
himself. And, sjill thinking, he passed out of sight, 
the boy turning to look after him with the old flush 
coming to the ruddy cheeks and the flash in the dark 
eyes. 

“ He hadn’t no right to try to bribe me,” he muttered, 
his conscience still sore with the affront ; but the smile 
had half disarmed his resentment. 


A GLIMPSE A T FRUITION. 


257 


CHAPTER XI Y. 

A GLIMPSE AT FRUITION. 

“Nor pinch my liberal soul, though I be poor, 

Nor cease to love high, though I live thus low.” 

— Elizabeth Barrett Brovming. 

There’s no use for you to plead business or study, 
or any other such poor excuse ; come to me you must, 
Horace Graham, or I shall be tempted to believe there 
is little, after all, in friendship. Of course, I know you 
will have to rush off with merely one minute to spare 
for catching the train — and trains, like death, wait for 
no man (there’s a thought for you) — so you’ll find in 
this the ready tickets that mean so much to such busy 
creatures as you. Sometimes I envy you — do you 
know, Graham ? — plodding along as you do, fighting as 
bravely as even Iloratius did on the old bridge to keep, 
your soul’s enemies at bay, to conquer in the end and 
send them routed. There’s something to your life ; 
something I miss from mine because there isn’t enough 
need to spur me on and I lack the enthusiasm and de- 
termination you and Ada and such men and women 
17 


258 


AT BROWN'S. 


possess. By the way, she’s as much of a mystery as 
ever. Prove it. Come out and see for yourself. 
Close friend as you are to her, you still do not under- 
stand her. She stands up in a fair fight as bravely as 
you do with all your man’s superior strength, and I 
doubt if even you can far surpass her in brave strug- 
gling for the unattained. I shall expect you by Thurs- 
day ; nothing can keep you after that. 

“ Yours in old comradeship, 

“ Arthur Ledyard.” 

There was an undercurrent of restlessness through 
the letter that Horace Graham’s quick eyes caught at a 
glance. He smiled, too, over the thoughtfulness that 
could remember in such a kindly fashion the utter 
impossibility there would be for the young man to 
spare even such a slight sum — to him — as that needed 
for the trip, though he knew perfectly well he could 
not accept the gift, given even' as it was. But he 
would go ; there was no real excuse for him to hesitate ; 
his employers would willingly grant to their ambitious 
clerk the few days’ vacation; his mother and sister 
would be glad of the change for him. Still he hesi- 
tated. 

He sat for some time over the letter, buried in deep, 
thought. There was a frown between the straight 


A GLIMPSE AT FRUITION. 


259 


dark brows born of intense thought. He could go ; 
there could be no possible doubt of that ; he ought 
to go, too, to grant the wish of this weary young 
fellow idling his time among the mountains with 
no weight of care or responsibility, save for his own 
life, upon his shoulders. He could go, but — did 
he wish to go? This was puzzling him now. He 
needed the change, doubtless ; he could return to 
his work and study with refreshed mind and body. 
But — did he wish to go ? Some few words of the 
letter clung to his mind with greater pertinacity than 
would seem at all necessary. The cordial wish for 
his company, the frank avowal of this proof of his 
friendship, he put by with a smile for the kindly heart 
under the light words ; but the few words that would 
stand out from the others with such persistence held 
him back from sending the prompt word of acceptance 
of the invitation : 

“ Close friend as you are to her, you still do not 
understand her. She stands up in a fair fight as 
bravely as you do with all your man’s superior 
strength, and I doubt if even you can far surpass her 
in brave struggling for the unattained.” 

Few, simple words, and there seemed to be no cause 
in them for this hesitancy. He had known she was 


260 


AT BROWN'S. 


different from the other girls of his acquaintance ; 
he had watched her often when she never dreamed of 
his scrutiny, proud to hold her among his circle of 
closer friends*. High-minded man as he was, he could 
not fail to admire her sweet womanliness and brave 
loyalty to truth and honor ; he had believed, after 
their long friendship, that he knew the proud young 
nature perfectly. He honored her with the strength 
of his manhood ; his life was truer for knowing hers ; 
yet here was this gay mutual friend telling him that 
he could not understand her — that she was braver 
than he could have dreamed ! He had fought his life 
bravely ; lie had won more struggles, perhaps, than 
many of his friends could guess, and the thought of 
this girl had helped him many a time when the effort 
seemed scarcely worth the while. But now — he laid 
the letter down slowly, as though laying aside the 
words for the thoughts. Now, knowing his heart, 
could he meet the girl on an equal footing, and lay 
his claim of friendship upon her life with this un- 
spoken cry deeper down for more than the mere kind- 
liness of her friendship ? Could he meet her, know- 
ing her truth, and yet come back to his life and his 
work and the struggles as true a man as he left? 
Would it be well for his manhood to set this tempta- 


A GLIMPSE AT FRUITION. 


261 


tion in his own w r ay ? Should he have the strength 
to trample it under his feet and fight it out as he was 
fighting out the rough lines of his life ? 

He laughed bitterly, changed in those few’ minutes 
from the steady, stern young man to a soldier in the 
field. He could meet her, he could hold to his stern 
determination ; but would he ? He was brave enough, 
lie knew ; he could do all this without a sign to the 
world that there was any thing more in his life than 
it had known ; but the man’s soul thought of the soul 
of the woman and the ties of the world, the vast dif- 
ference in the world’s standard for a wealthy young 
woman with talents and graces and the young clerk 
fighting his fight for a place among the world’s strong 
workers — all these things that must make such a vast 
difference, must make the struggle hard for the win- 
ning of his standard of manhood. And — dared he go ? 

“ But this is absurd,” he said to himself, by and 
by, once again taking up the letter from his friend 
and glancing down the sheet. “ I didn’t believe you 
could be such a coward, Horace Graham, as you are 
proving yourself now. Go ? Of course you will go, 
and you will return to your work just as you left it, 
with may be a little difference in you, but of that who 
will ever know ? And how will you let it affect your 


262 


AT BROWN'S. 


life ? You will go as Ledyard wishes, and there will 
be the end of it. These absurd thoughts are not wor- 
thy a man who calls himself her friend. This non- 
sense shall stop right here. Answer your letter and 
go to your books. Be a man and her equal in your 
soul, that she may never regret the words of her 
friendship for you.” 

He set his lips sternly, no touch of smiling on them 
now, and, having written the answer called for, turned 
again to the huge law-books before him, and was soon, 
to all appearances, buried in the depths of their mys- 
teries. But Arthur Ledyard, receiving liis letter, 
laughed aloud over the few words it contained, and 
seemed to appreciate their meaning more fully than 
the writer could have imagined, though not a word 
did he say even when applied to by Maynard for an 
explanation of his strange mirth. 

“ It’s too ridiculous to tell,” was the reply. “ Wait ; 
possess your soul with patience, Bob, and you shall 
find out for yourself the magnificent pathos and 
humor in this epistle.” He laughed again, and for- 
got his small perplexities and worries in the immense 
enjoyment it afforded him. 

And he met his friend when the time came for his 
arrival, having recovered almost completely from the 


A GLIMPSE AT FRUITION. 


263 


effects of tlie accident caused by tlie runaway mare ; 
and they clasped hands as warmly as thoifgh the heart 
of the one was not as clearly made manifest to the 
other as keen eyes for a friend’s welfare could 
make it. 

“ Graham, this is good of you. But I knew you 
would come, even to the leaving of those gigantic 
tomes you are fighting.” 

“ You knew I couldn’t refuse such a crying appeal 
from you, Ledyard,” was the laughing rejoinder, as 
the friends turned from tlie station. “ Snow enough 
up here, I should say ! I left little enough at home. 
How are you, anyway ? You’re looking exception- 
ally well, and your spirits even have not been damp- 
ened by this forced stay of yours among the mount- 
ains when the gay life at home is waiting your pleas- 
ure and missing the 4 bright, particular star’ of its 
firmament. You’re certain you’ve fully recovered 
from that escapade, Ledyard ? It wasn’t a pleasant 
injury, of course you have discovered. But it was 
like you to forget yourself at such a moment.” 

“ Humph ! ” was the half-provoked reply, “ I couldn’t 
have called myself your friend and have done any thing 
else, Horace Graham. And I can’t for the life of me 
see why people should make such a time over it when 


264 


AT BROWN'S. 


any one else would have done tlie same or forever lost 
his self-respect.” 

“ Well, there, now you speak truth, Ledyard,” was 
the gay answer, the steady gray eyes meeting the half- 
angry blue ones in a smiling glance. “ Every man 
doesn’t stop to think of the loss of his self-respect 
when his life is possibly in danger. Never mind ; 
don’t look so indignant. Of course you couldn’t have 
done otherwise, being Arthur Ledyard, but I happen 
to know of men who would have forgotten it. May- 
nard is still with you ? And where are the other fel- 
lows ? I met Macallister the other day, and he told 
me of this accident that I never should have known 
otherwsie — undoubtedly never should have known if 
left to your kindly telling. You’re looking well, any- 
way, Arthur. That is always pleasant to know of 
one’s friends.” 

“ Looking better than you, anyway, Graham. What 
with this scrabbling of yours for the mastery of the 
mysteries of the bar, and the figuring forever at your 
desk in the store, I wonder there is even a semblance 
of a shadow about you. And here am I, lazy, good- 
for-nothing, incapable Arthur Ledyard, wasting my 
time among the Adirondacks, knowing you are win- 
ning the fight down in the world against all odds. 


A GLIMPSE AT FRUITION. 


265 


Pity, I think, if I were not looking well ! I’d only 
like to give you my place for a little while and fit 
into yours — just to discover the benefit of it.” 

“Pm afraid,” young Graham replied, laughing, 
“ that you could keep me to the careless life a very 
short time, knowing that my work isn’t more than 
beginning, while you would in reality fade to a shade 
under the strain of a work you have never dreamed 
of. But it’s a good work, after all, Ledyard. And 
when once a man has taken hold of the plow of a life- 
work he doesn’t, if he can, want to turn back. I’d 
fret myself to a shadow up here with nothing to do.” 

“Of course you would,” was the almost bitter 
reply as the horse before their cutter was sent off at 
a fiercer pace under the stroke of the whip. “ I’d 
like to forget I ever had a cent or a wealthy father 
just for one year, Horace Graham, and discover if 
there is truly any more cause for a poor fellow’s ris- 
ing up the world’s true ladder than for the wealthy 
fellow who has no impetus of 6 must’ and no strength 
of ‘ will.’ I’d like to change places with you, Horace 
Graham, and find out the reality of the matter. If 
there is any reason in poverty proving better than 
wealth I have half a mind to try it. You don’t have 
faith in the need, but the will, eh, Graham ? Of course 


266 


AT BROWN'S. 


I knew you would say that. A fellow who is grind- 
ing out his life at the wheel can have no faith in any 
thing but the ability to turn the wheel, no matter who 
may try. O, it’s your boast — yours and Ada’s — that 
the man makes the way, not the way the man. You’re 
proving it in your life ; she is proving it in hers. 
Not a particle of difference, so far as I can see. 
You’re making your way against the need, she’s mak- 
ing her way without it, but both winning from sim- 
ple ability. It’s the one overpowering problem of 
my life. I sent for you to prove its solution.” 

Horace Graham laughed. He had heard this young 
fellow talk many times before, and, although he be- 
lieved in the wish to be more than he was proving for 
himself, he also did not doubt the lack of will that 
kept him from making of his life a grand success 
instead of its failure to yield even the enjoyment one 
would imagine must come from unlimited wealth and 
numberless friends. He laughed, but it was a kindly 
laugh, and did not wound his friend. He had proved 
before the depth of Graham’s friendship, and would 
trust him with his life, if need were. There was 
silence between them for a few minutes, while the 
bracing winds cut past them and the crisp snow was 
thrown from under the light hoofs of the horse, the 


A GLIMPSE AT FRUITION. 


267 


bells ringing a gay little tune to their ears with a 
minor chord different in depth and sadness to each ; 
then Arthur Ledyard turned his frank eyes on his 
friend in grave scrutiny. His usually gay voice was 
grave, too, when he spoke. 

“ Graham,” he said, “ I sent for you because I knew 
the change from that cramped office and your den to 
this magnificent air would benefit you more than ten 
weeks of idleness at home ; but I sent for you, too, be- 
cause I want you on my own account. I’ve given you 
plenty of cause to laugh away any such sober thoughts 
as you think I may have as a passing fancy, but for 
this once I am in earnest more than ever in my life 
before. I want you, and I sent for you. I hate 
my life — there ! I’ve been shut up with plenty 
of time to think and plenty of chances to see 
what life holds for those who take it as they find 
it and those who make it what they leave it. 
I’ve seen enough of invalidism, with its utter lack of 
ambition, its utter lack of capacity for enjoyment, be- 
cause of a narrowed life shut close with luxury and 
the wish granted ere it is scarcely framed — all wishes, 
perhaps, save the greatest one of happiness ; and I 
have watched, too, the lives of those shut out of lux- 
ury, set in barest, roughest lines, that are yet grand 


268 


AT BROWN'S. 


and noble because made noble by the height of man- 
hood and womanhood living within. And I have seen, 
too, the lives of two girls this winter — two girls out of 
the hundred or so I may know — and they have forced 
unconsciously upon me the knowledge that life is 
something more than mere pleasure, than mere laugh- 
ter and dance and gayety. O, I’ve thought and thought 
and watched and tried to prove the claims false, but 
the truth would face me and my life would face me, 
and I couldn’t shut them out, and — I sent for you. 
You’ve fought in that rank, Graham. You know 
what it is to dig and dig and, may be, get pushed back 
many times because the higher road is rougher from 
lack of much travel; and I want you, you , to set me 
straight. I don’t know how. I haven’t the least idea 
what I am good for. I have the talents, may be, to say 
pretty nothings to pretty women, and to sing their 
songs after a manner to please them, and the power also 
to do them as well as the other fellows ; but — what a 
life ! Who will ever think twice of me after it is fin- 
ished, or be the better for having known me ? It isn’t 
absurd, this new thought — new to you, not so new to 
me — and the desire to do, if only I knew where to be- 
gin or what to do ; and you have it in your power to 
help me, and I want you to do it. Maynard’s a good 


A GLIMPSE AT FRUITION. 


269 


sort of fellow. He is frank as the day, and gives one 
some pretty startling ideas of his own ; but lie doesn’t 
know any more than I how to carry out any wish to 
follow the nobler living. Every one, I suppose, at 
times has some such thoughts and desires as I have at 
this minute ; but I am in earnest, and simply wish to 
know where to begin to take up the roughest squab- 
ble with the world it is necessary to take up. There ! 
Do you regret having come, Horace Graham, or are 
you the friend I believed, and willing to help another 
friend when there is need ? I’ve watched you and 
wondered at you and puzzled my brains to find the 
solution that would make a man give up the best 
years of his life for the graver fight of higher aims ; 
but, after all, it isn’t entirely you who has changed my 
life, Graham. There’s Ada, living up in that queer 
old farm-house back here, living as faithfully and do- 
ing her work as faithfully as if the whole world were 
watching her struggles, setting in her colors on the 
canvas as if every stroke of her brush were a crust of 
bread for her living. You didn’t know she is an artist ? 
Well, wonders, you remember, haven’t all ceased. 
You’ll be proud of her, Graham, as she is of you. 
And there’s that friend of hers, as odd a creature as 
Ada herself, set in her quiet life, shut off, I have dis- 


270 


AT BROWN'S. 


covered, from much that she would bring into her life, 
were it possible, living her life that may be the world 
will never turn once to look at, but just as brave and 
noble in its way as one of us could live, the purity of 
her character and the depth of her nature stamped 
on the pale, proud face and sensitive mouth. I 
didn’t come up here for nothing, Horace Graham. 
That runaway wasn’t for nothing. I begin to believe 
life works for the fulfilling of our plans if we will 
take the opportunities offered. There, proud Miss 
Ada, with a fear for the happiness of her friend which 
I understand now and forgive her accordingly, had 
just refused to admit me to this new friendship of 
hers ; and then there came that strange happening 
that set her words at defiance and has given me a 
glimpse into another life as pure and sweet and true 
as that of the girl we both have admired from the 
time we knew her. I’ve known Ada considerably 
longer than you, Graham, and I know, too, this sturdy 
struggle to mount above the blocks laid in the way of 
genius that you never knew, never guessed at, because 
she kept them from all save a few, from you more 
than the others, because — well, I’ll never tell you. It 
may have been because you kept from her your own 
struggles ; it may have been because she wished to 


A GLIMPSE AT FRUITION. 


271 


prove lier power of living after the stern heights you 
were climbing, too. If you do not know I cannot en- 
lighten you; but, knowing her, one is not puzzled 
long to know. You know the depth and sweetness 
of her character and the strength of will that could 
carry her through the temptations society always has 
in wait for such women as she, with her pretty face 
and womanly manners and unlimited wealth. She has 
risen above it, you say, and proved that women are 
not, as we, in the proud depths of our mightier souls, 
call them, the essence of frailty and sweetness and 
artifice. Y es, she has. Her life has beeyi to some good 
purpose, even the few years she has lived. And this 
friend of hers is another such womanly girl, with per- 
haps a greater capacity for suffering because of a sub- 
tle depth of character that must always bring the 
world a little lower than she had dreamed in her 
dreams of purity and beauty. She is nothing but a 
girl. She hasn’t seen nearly the life that Ada has. 
She hasn’t the stamp of a woman versed in the world 
we live in, and the spirit of her nature has not been 
curbed by the will a woman finds she must hold for 
her defense against heart-wounds and soul-troubles in 
its dreams of heights of purity. We’re almost up to 
the hotel, Graham. I wanted you to myself for a lit- 


272 


AT BROWN'S. 


tie, so I didn’t tell any one save tlie -clerk up there that 
you were coming. Even Ada doesn’t know it. I want 
you to see her without her previous knowledge, so 
that she can be prepared for you with her gentleness, 
that hides the true depth of her life. We’ll go over 
there this afternoon. I have told you all this because 
it lay so near my heart I wished to have it off as a sort 
of relief as soon as I could get at you. I can’t expect 
to have you to myself for I don’t know how many 
hours after this, but I want you to help me, and I want 
you to think seriously of it. I’ve wearied you, but I 
trust you.” * 

He laughed as the horse turned up the steep drive 
to the hotel steps ; but Horace Graham, looking into 
his eyes, knew that there was truth and a dawning de- 
termination to do and a waking of the truly manly 
soul that had lain dormant so long, perhaps, because 
there had not been enough strength of character to 
find the will and way before. And Arthur Ledyard, 
the gay pet of society, the wealthy son of one of the 
city’s eminent financiers, the favorite of his profes- 
sors at college, the favorite of the women in his cir- 
cle, knew, meeting the steady soul-gaze of the gray 
eyes, turning now to black with depth of sympathy, 
knew with certainty, that he had not appealed in vain 


A GLIMPSE AT FRUITION. 


273 


for tlie help only such a friend could give. Here was a 
friend who had been through the fire, who had been 
tried with the height and depth and intensity of his 
own struggles, his own failures and disappointments 
and brave overpowering of each. He knew that Hor- 
ace Graham, not in any sense his equal so far as the 
world judged, save for his courtly gentleness of man- 
ner and his pride of birth, yet beyond him higher 
than the world could grant in its ignorance of its 
bravery — he knew that his life would be the better 
for the closer tie he had laid upon their friendship by 
this confession, and he drew rein at the steps with a 
lighter, freer heart than he had known all the weeks 
of his stay. And Robert Maynard, from the window 
of the office where he was lounging, watching the 
other guests of the hotel with the lazy eyes of a lazy 
life, wrenched open the door and sprang down to meet 
this friend with a pleased expression on his face and 
a glad touch of the hands and words of hearty wel- 
come, wondering, nevertheless, what had driven the 
settled frown from Ledyard’s face — a frown that had 
grown a sort of second nature to him since the day of 
his accident. * But he said to himself, having even 
less faith in his friend’s manhood than he had in him- 
self, that it was due, doubtless, to the freshened mem- 
18 


274 


AT BROWN'S. 


ory of home brought with this friend from the heart 
of the city ; wondering, nevertheless, what had brought 
him from his office and his books when the gay world 
itself was powerless to draw him away from his fixed 
line of duty. 

“ Some of Ledyard’s doing, no doubt,” he said to 
himself later, thinking over the matter. ■ “ To give him 
an outing, I presume, and a breath of this air that will 
cling to him months in the stuffy office and mingle 
with the dusty pages of his books long after he has left 
the mountains.” And, laughing to himself at his 
brave putting of his thoughts, he forgot all about it. 


TRUEST NOBILITY. 


275 


CHAPTER XY. 

TRUEST NOBILITY. 

“ We’ll keep our aims sublime, our eyes erect, 

Although our woman hands should shake and fail; 

And if we fail. . . . But must we ? 

.... All, man’s pride 
Or woman’s — which is greatest?” 

— Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 

Little Ellen and her friend Jimmy had been 
spending the afternoon with Ada and Clare. They 
had had, as they said, with childish effusion, still 
munching candies on their way home — they had had 
the jolliest time of all their lives — which were not 
long, indeed — and it seemed to them as if a fairy 
store had opened at their feet in the unlimited fruits 
and nuts and candies spread for their edification and 
delight the long afternoon through, with as much as 
they could carry home in their small arms. There 
had been games, and the girls read to them some 
deeply interesting stories of fairy powers and delicious 
mysteries of witchcraft, and had shown them pictures 
of giants and lions and marvelous adventures of boys 


276 


AT BROWN'S. 


and wild beasts, and then, with Mrs. Brown’s con- 
sent, had taken them down to the parlor and sung to 
them dainty children’s songs with the music they had 
never before heard. Then had come the prettiest 
afternoon tea imaginable, with delicate sandwiches 
of cold chicken, sliced oranges, with mites of hot bis- 
cuits, made by Mrs. Brown’s own willing hands ; with 
cakes in plenty, and ice-cream to crown all. And it 
had seemed in truth to the children a glimpse into 
fairy-land, and they w^ere the happiest of two small 
children plodding through the snow T beside the two 
older girls who walked down the hill with them. 

Ada enjoyed it almost as much, she told Miss 
Deering, as the children did, and the girl did not 
doubt this in the least. To her the winter had been 
wonderful, with this girl’s help and loving sympathy, 
for Ada had learned to love her as she told Arthur 
Ledyard she must do, knowing her. They some- 
times kept up their readings and talks far into the 
twilight, walking down together to the sanatorium 
with those wonderful lights over the mountains; or 
they drove along the mountain roads, choosing from 
them the prettiest, taking with them, at times, one of 
the school children for a free afternoon, away from 
the hard influences of the school and the home. 


TRUEST NOBILITY. 


277 


Perhaps Clare sat for an hour reading to her friend 
while she sat before her canvas, or over this work 
many a talk went between them of the masters whose 
work remained to prove their lives. Perhaps a hard 
problem from some previous reading was discussed 
with the care and thought and the love underlying 
all, that made life in the simple mountain house a 
delightful thing to both girls far away from their 
homes. But the one girl was learning the human 
nature that lay before her, teaching her, as her city 
life could never have done, depths of aspirations 
often shut within narrow lives, the noble sacrifice of 
much that means happiness to living, throbbing 
hearts, the other girl laying by a store of the coveted 
knowledge that had come to her in such a marvelous 
manner. It had seemed to her, when ordered from 
home to this mountain sanatorium, that she had lost 
all there was to make life worth living ; and here in 
these same mountains she was gaining the thing she 
had so longed for and had given up as something 
beyond her reach — something that a girl like her 
must do without because necessity forbade it. And 
here, right at her feet, it seemed, had come the thing 
for which she had longed. It had changed her inner 
life as well, this strange good fortune. The half- 


278 


AT BROWN'S. 


fretful, restless expression left lier face; there was 
in its place the sweet serenity of trust. The half- 
quenclied resentment at life was dying from the black 
eyes, and they held a latent power of tenderness and 
sweetness of which she herself was unconscious, but 
which her delighted friend saw deepening day by 
day, knowing the strength for good that lay in this 
girl passing into the wider field of womanhood. 

Miss Deering understood this gentle girl friend of 
liers now. She understood the beautiful character 
which placed itself so fully in the higher hands that 
it held and strengthened her when it had seemed to 
her that life could hold nothing but pain and bitter- 
ness, when it had so often seemed the struggle she 
had taken up did not yield the hoped-for good, when 
desperation made it hard for her to keep up a brave 
spirit. She saw Ada’s sweet daily life made beautiful 
with kindly acts, with kindly thoughts for all about 
her. She saw her kindness to even the rough men 
who cared little for gentler influences, but lived their 
days of hard work and evenings spent in smoking 
and drinking and card playing ; thoughtful acts of 
kindness even to the daughter of the house, who had 
disliked her for this very kindliness of heart that had 
won her brothers’ favor ; that had somehow lifted a 


TRUEST NOBILITY. 


279 


little the lines of care and sorrow indelibly stamped 
on the mother’s face ; that even roused the stolid in- 
difference of the father to a bit of laughter or an- 
imated conversation about little home thoughts. She 
saw all these things grow almost imperceptibly day 
by day, and her own proud heart was touched and 
won by the other girl’s quiet living, by her brave 
thought for others when her own heart was sad. 
And into her life came the change, the undefined de- 
sire, the half-suggested longing of her heart to meet 
life as bravely, as truly and unselfishly as this friend 
was doing. She saw her power of womanly gentle- 
ness and truth on the lives of the two young men so 
strangely thrown into their quiet mountain lives; she 
noted the perfect respect of their manner, their very 
tone, their very glances in addressing her, or in speaking 
of her ; she recognized with her keen woman’s instinct, 
in spite of her untried life, that they held her friendship 
as something more than the mere friendship, so called, 
between women and men with little in common ; she 
recognized that they held her friendship as some- 
thing to be prized, as something above that won by 
light words of flattery or well-turned compliments ; 
that their friendship with her friend was worth fight- 
ing for, was worth holding their lives for the attain- 


280 


AT BROWN'S 


ing, and the influence therefore greater, perhaps, than 
she could know. She was a woman ; she was on the 
threshold of womanhood with a heart and soul that 
must hold closely any strong impressions ; and the 
knowledge of Ada’s power for good over every one 
she knew lifted her desires and her aspirations to a 
higher level, while the girl’s kindly thought for their 
mutual improvement was placing within her power 
the truer knowledge she had so longed for. 

She was thinking of these things as they walked 
with the children along the snowy road while the 
royal colors flaming the west with the brilliant sunset 
silenced them by its very beauty. They had allowed 
plenty of time for the walk and the return ere the 
half lights should come ; hut when they reached the 
log-house where Ellen lived her mother received her 
daughter from their hands with rough greeting and 
an invitation to come in for a minute. When they 
left the house the lights in the west that reflected so 
marvelously in the east had died to a dead gray, and 
the colors were faded. But in the tiny house they 
had gained a glimpse into a life that fully repaid 
them for any regret they would otherwise have felt 
for the loss of the sky-painting. The woman was 
naturally rough, hut when once the flood-gates of her 


TRUEST NOBILITY. 


281 


tongue were loosed slie was willing to talk on indef- 
initely — gossip of lier neighbors, of whom she knew 
astonishingly much. But when the conversation 
turned on Mrs. Brown, and the great kindness she 
had shown this girl since her stay with her, the 
woman ran her apron across her face — with a sigh 
for the suds that would cling to one’s face for so long 
after the wash — and said, with a little tone of softness 
in her loud voice, her keen eyes searching the faces 
opposite her where the girls were standing at the 
door : 

“ Thet Mis’ Brown’s a wonderful woman ! ’D you 
know her ’fore you kem up, miss ? No ? I thought 
not. Don’t' know why, but I sort o’ thought not. 
Yes, she’s a wonderful woman. Never seen her like 
now’er’s. W e all has hard lives mostly, but she’s had 
ther hardest ’t I know ’bout yet ! An’ wlio’d think 
et, with thet still air o’ hers an’ ther kind word she’s 
al’ays got fer every one. Yes, she’s a wonderful 
woman. Don’t know nothin’ ’bout her? Well, you’d 
ought ter know. ’Taint often you’ll see sech a creat- 
ur’. She’s got them boys o’ hers — an’ they’s all sorter 
wild, as mebby you’ve see, livin’ tliar so long ; but o’ 
all them thet Bill — ther one gone to ther lumber camp 
this winter — he’s ther worst one. Jim gits drunk ; 


282 


AT BROWN'S. 


most o’ tlier men round liyar do git drunk ; but thet 
aint nothin’ special — nothin’ ter give thet look ter 
her face or keep thet mouth sliet so close no one’s 
ever heard a single word o’ complaint from her. No, 
sir! It is bad when tlier drink gits too much in a 
feller, an’ tlier wimmen have a hard time while et lasts, 
mebby, but ’taint tliet’s give her sech a look o’ suf- 
ferin’. She’s a good woman, too — good ’s ever a 
woman was, goin’ ter church reg’lar, snow or shine, 
through thick an’ thin, an’ doin’ constant suthin’ kind 
fer a body. She treats them boys o’ hers ’s though 
they was tlier best boys ever borned, an’ we all know 
they aint ! Now, Jim’s good-hearted ; he don’t mean 
no onkindness when he gits home full o’ drink an’ 
liorse-fightin’ ; she knows he don’t mean nothin’, an’ 
she’s good ’s ken be to him. ’Taint every one would 
be ? No’m, thar aint ; but et’s her way. Jack ? Yes, 
Jack’s a good feller, but he aint growed yet. They 
don’t al’ays turn out as you ’xpect tell they’s growed. 
But Bill — You’ve seed her still way o’ sayin’ nothin’ 
when you know she’s got a sight ter say ef she’d only 
say et ; but she never says et. Well, this Bill — mebby 
I’d oughtn’t ter tell you, innocent things as you are, 
but I’m goin’ to — this Bill, he’s been ’s hard a feller fer 
drink an’ gamblin’ an’ bettin’ o’ horses, an’ off o’ nights 


TRUEST NOBILITY. 


283 


steddy till Mis’ Brown, she never knowed whether 
he’d come home or not — good lack ! 

“ Mebby ’taint fer me to say it to you, but you’d 
oughter know thet woman ! He’s been ther hardest 
o’ all her boys, Bill has. Ef ever a woman ’d oughter 
cried her eyes out an’ give right up an’ done fer her- 
self an’ let them boys do fer theirselves, that’s Mis’ 
Brown. She’s done more’n even a mother ’d oughter 
done fer him. She’s fergive him over an’ over an’ 
done her best ter help him do better, an’ still he went 
on an’ went on, an’ she fergivin’ him constant when 
she’d oughter sent him off ter do fer himself. An’ 
she’s got him married now to one o’ ther gals back 
over on ther mounting, an’ she’s done more fer him ’n 
I’d a done, son o’ mine or not. An’ still she never says 
nothin’ — jest sliets thet mouth o’ hers an’ sets them 
arms acrost her chest an’ stands up an’ treats you like 
as though she had ther sweetest life a woman ’d ever 
dreamed of ! But we know — most o’ us ! We’ve 
seen ! Thar aint a woman now’er’s round liyar but ’d 
give her last breath fer helpin’ her ter ’ndure less 
suff’rin’ ! We don’t al’ays know ther lives o’ them 
we see every day ’thout we’s lived with ’em all our 
lives. W ot that woman aint borne aint fer me ter 
say, but ef ever thar was a long-sufferin’, good, honest 


284 


AT BROWN'S. 


woman, that woman is Mis’ Brown. You’d never 
knowed et ef I hadn’t telled yon. She’ll die with 
thet set air ’bout her. Thar aint no talkin’ with her 
’bout ther toughness o’ life. She jest ups an’ says ter 
your face thet life was give us ter live , an’ not grumble 
over, ef ’taint been jest’s we’d like ter have et. An’ 
you can’t deny ’t when you look ’t her an’ remember 
wot she’s beared ! I’m glad you’ve took Ellie out. 
She told me ’bout ther ride you give her, you know, 
an’ I’ve liked you ever since. She’s a good ’nougli 
young one, Ellie is, but she aint over fond o’ work — 
no more’n ther rest o’ us, I s’pose. Yes, get along 
with you, Ellie ! Wot ’d you say to ther ladies fer 
them ? ’Taint all of ’em ’d give you sech a nice time, 
I ken tell you ! Thank ’em an’ git ’long with you ! 
Goin’ ? Well, I’m much ’bliged, I’m sure, fer your 
kindness to Ellie. Come ’gen ef you want to, both 
o’ you. ’Taint often we has vis’tors, but I’ll be glad 
to have you come. Good-bye. Yes, it’s cold, but it’s 
al’ays cold here winters.” 

“ Clare Deering,” Ada said, impressively, after a 
long pause as they walked back along the now gray 
road with only the dull tints of after-sunset along the 
heights away to the east and the wind blowing royally 
down from the pines on the heights — “ Clare Deering, 


TRUEST NOBILITY. 


285 


did you ever think that you may live with a person 
days and days and think you know them by heart and 
that there is no possible limit to your knowledge, and 
find may be after a long while that your faitli in your 
own depth of perception has fallen through. Have 
you ever admired a character for the hidden nobility 
you have fathomed so far as you think it is possible 
for any depth to be, and discovered by and by that 
there is a depth to it even your great knowledge could 
not sound \ Have you ever discovered after some 
years of studying character that you may never reach 
— try as hard as you may — that you may never reach 
to the depth and height and grandeur of the human 
heart in its capabilities of suffering and struggling in 
silence ? That woman down there, lacking in educa- 
tion as I have believed in the height of my own self- 
stated knowledge — that woman from her ignorance 
has given me a truth that the great height of my 
knowledge has failed to fathom. I knew this woman 
in my quaint farm-house was a woman one might well 
feel proud to claim as friend from her noble woman- 
hood and silent suffering ; but how could I, watching 
her every day with eyes made sharp by interest — how 
could I guess this dark page of her life that must have 
brought those lines around her mouth and that dig- 


286 


AT BROWN'S. 


nity of manner that the queenliest lady in the land 
could not equal ! I begin to feel so small, Clare Peer- 
ing ! I find so clearly every day that I am down in the 
depths of ignorance when I would claim for my right 
the heights that only a life-time of suffering, after all, 
can grant. Those brilliant colors faded from the 
heavens before we could catch even a glimpse of them ; 
they are like life, Clare Peering. We never catch the 
highest lights ; we always miss the beauty we had been 
waiting for, just lose by a moment, may be, the thing 
for which we have so longed. But it isn’t the loss, 
after all; no, it isn’t the loss that comes to us with 
these missed chances, Clare ; it is the gained depth, 
the truer insight into what a marvelous thing life is 
— what height and depth and magnitude lies under its 
surface. If we had every thing we wished for we 
couldn’t amount to very much, could we, Clare Peer- 
ing? If we had nothing to suffer, no little crosses of 
our own to bear, we couldn’t really have the sym- 
pathy, could we, that makes life true ? Po you hear 
that logic, Miss Peering ? and do you think it so very 
absurd ? The truth that woman down there spoke 
when she told us of this strange life that we, in our 
ignorance, called quiet ! ” 

“ I wish we could do something really good, some- 


TRUEST NOBILITY. 


287 


thing that would make her know how much we think 
of her,” Clare Deering said, softly, the black eyes 
tenderly meeting the dark ones lifted to her. “ I wish 
I could tell her how sorry I am, but I can’t. I don’t 
see how any boy of hers could be so mean to her. 
They ought to be as proud of her as if she were an 
empress. I’d just like to see any one treat my mother 
so ! O, I’d give them a piece of my mind, and they’d 
never forget it, either ! ” She shut her lips deter- 
minedly with the last words, as though in truth it would 
be a sorry time for such a person, and Ada laughed 
softly, touching her arm with her muff, both hands 
buried within it. 

“ I’d trust you to defend your mother, Clare,” she 
said, with loving appreciation of the warmth of heart 
that prompted the outburst. “ I wish others thought 
as much of their mothers as you do.” 

“And you,” said the other girl, gently, a tender 
long look down into the lifted eyes touched with the 
darkness of the falling twilight. 

There were no further words between them as they 
hurried along the darkening road through the cold of 
the freshening wind ; and as they reached the open 
yard in front of the farm-house, and Ada was turning 
to bid her friend good-night — her invitation to enter 


288 


AT BROWN'S. 


being declined, as it was best for her to return to tlie 
sanatorium in the light — a cutter standing by the barn 
attracted her attention, and she was pausing in her 
speaking when three young men came from the house 
down the yard to meet them. Two of them she had 
seen nearly every day within the past few w r eeks, but 
the other — she hesitated for the space of a breath, the 
color leaving her cheeks and her lips blanching ; then 
she smiled with easy grace and met them frankly as 
she would meet any friends of hers. 

“Even you have ventured among the mountains in 
the depth of winter, Mr. Graham? This is proof 
positive that the air is marvelous. When Mr. Graham, 
Miss Deering, has left his busy life in the city for an 
outing among the hills we can have no further proof 
that there is something marvelously strange in the air 
of the Adirondacks. But it is good to see you — an- 
other of my home friends — Mr. Graham. Is your 
mother well ? And Kittie, she is not so well, you say ? 
I am so sorry ! Her last letter to me was so full of 
bright spirit I hoped she was feeling uncommonly well 
this winter. It would do her good to come among the 
mountains — ” She paused with a sudden thought, 
paused for an instant only, and took up the light 
thread of talk again as though there had not come a 


TRUEST NOBILITY. 


289 


change in her plans — a fulfilling of a desire that had 
seemed so out of her reach because her power was so 
insignificant. “ And all the old city with the old 
friends? Just the same? Isn’t it strange how one 
leaves such things out of one’s life for, may be, a year 
or a six months and still every thing goes on the same ? 
I shall find nothing changed, I presume, when I re- 
turn in the spring. Have you seen father lately, Mr. 
Graham? Two days ago? That is so pleasant! I 
like to feel that my friends have talked with papa so 
lately. It will be good to see him again. But life 
here is charming in sj>ite of the miles and miles away 
from home. You could not guess of the pleasure of 
it ; could he, Miss Deering ? And Mr. Ledyard is our 
defender, as he has been, you remember, since — O, 
ever so long ago. And if it hadn’t been for Mr. May- 
nard I am afraid to think of the consequences of 
Arthur’s illness. He was a regular Sir Galahad ; noth- 
ing kept him from fulfilling his quest for something 
to amuse him. We’ve grown acquainted with the 
mountains nearly as perfectly as one can living so near 
to them. You will not come in? And have been 
waiting for us — how long, Robert ? How, that’s un- 
kind indeed. We’ve been gone not longer than an 
hour at the most. But it is too bad for you to have 
19 


290 


AT BROWN'S. 


waited so long and grown so dismally cross over it. 
We did not expect to be so detained. Miss Deering 
and I walked home with — with — ” 

“ Yes, we know,” laughed Mr. Maynard. “We dis- 
covered your errand at once from Mrs. Brown. She 
seems to have perfect faith in you. I wonder at that. 
A young woman who will forget her supper for the 
sake of walking home with two little ragamuffins — ” 

“ They’re not ragamuffins!” was the indignant re- 
joinder from Ada, while Miss Deering flashed a look 
of resentment at him from her black eyes that he turned 
off with a merry continuation of remarks. 

“ Well, your two charming young friends, the girl 
and boy to whom you have given an afternoon tea in 
the most approved style. You’re horribly unconven- 
tional, as I have had occasion to tell you so many times 
lately, Miss Ada. What would your friends at home 
say, do you imagine, if they knew all these mad esca- 
pades you are enjoying ? ” 

“I am doing nothing that would cause one friend 
one touch of shame,” Ada answered, quietly. “Be- 
cause we enjoy giving these children a little pleasure, 
or because we take the best of life, with its freedom 
here, is that cause for regret from our friends, Mr. 
Maynard ? ” 


TRUEST NOBILITY. 


291 


“ I beg a thousand pardons, Miss Ada,” he said, still 
in his bantering manner, though a flush was deepen- 
ing his cheeks. “ I was simply wondering at your 
taste after fashion had granted you flavor.” 

“ And, after all, drink wine as you will, there is 
nothing so satisfying as water,” she replied, now smil- 
ing an answer to his light words. “ Do you remain 
long, Mr. Graham ? I trust you will come over when 
we are at home. I regret sincerely having kept you 
waiting. To-morrow you will come ? At what hour ? 
That is for Arthur to say? Well, that means some 
sudden appearing without warning. I know Arthur, 
you see. Good-night. You will walk down with 
Miss Peering, Arthur? Good-night, Clare. In the 
morning, remember, the reading you promised me. 
Yes, I am very well, Mr. Graham. I shall see you in 
the afternoon ? That is well. It is getting late, and 
the wind blows colder here at night. Good-night.” 

She stood smiling back upon them from the shadowy 
piazza steps as they drove away — Mr. Graham and 
Robert Maynard and Arthur walking down the quiet 
road with Miss Peering — looking very sweet and 
kindly and womanly to the eyes of all, but to the eyes 
of one far nobler than he had dreamed she was even 
in the height of his thought of her, for he had heard 


292 


AT BROWN'S. 


of lier life among the mountain people and the daily 
sweetness of her thought for others and her unfailing 
striving with the work she had chosen. And as they 
rode away, turning slowly around the bend with the 
bells tinkling sharply on the frosty air, his heart was 
very brave to lift again the burdens he had thought so 
many times were too hard even for his striving. 

And as Ada entered the house she smiled to herself, 
keeping her thoughts away from the noble life of this 
friend, as she said to herself happily : 

“Why did I not think of it before? This Miss 
Ketcham doesn’t care one snap for the school, and 
doubtless would give it up quickly enough in spite of 
the meager salary, and there is my poor, pale little 
Kittie Graham fighting with her office- work when she 
might be bright as a dear, brave little girl could be 
here in the pure air of these hills. She has always 
wished to teach. I can’t for the life of me think why 
I didn’t remember her before in connection with this. 
I shall write to her to-morrow. Thank you, Mr. 
Graham, for unconsciously fulfilling my wish.” 

And smiling softly to herself she entered the house, 
and the gleam of light that streamed out on the night 
as she opened the door vanished quickly as she en- 
tered. 


A FERTILE BRAIN. 


293 


CHAPTER XYI. 

A FERTILE BRAIN. 

“ No riddle upon my lips, "but such straight words 
As friends should use to each other when they talk.” 

“ Nay, let the silence of my womanhood 
Commend my woman-love to thy belief.” 

— Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 

“ We’ll go over this morning, if you’re ready, 
Graham,” Arthur Ledyard said, as they rose from a 
late breakfast, a sort of excitement on his face, though 
he attempted to laugh easily, running his hand through 
the other’s arm. “ Maynard’s off somewhere long be- 
fore this ; he doesn’t sleep till the high sun shining in 
at his window wakes him. He’s different from May- 
nard of our city life, Graham. Or perhaps I see him 
in a different light. Which, O wise friend, do you 
think it may be ? He’s looking remarkably well, too, 
don’t you think? And how he does search these 
woods ! I believe there isn’t a spot in all the vast wil- 
derness that he hasn’t investigated. What have you 
thought in the night, old fellow ? Any hope for me 


294 


AT BROWN'S. 


as yet ? Don’t keep me too long waiting, though as to 
that I am willing to wait indefinitely if at last there is 
something for this lazy, good-for-nothing fellow.” He 
laughed again, but more easily now, as they mounted 
the stairs together. 

Horace Graham smiled gravely. He realized that 
this fair-weather friend was at last earnest in this wish 
of his, and he was capable of so many things that to 
choose one to which he would hold until successful 
was harder than it looked. 

“You honestly ought not to expect me to judge for 
you, Arthur,” he said, quietly. “ This is something 
for only you to judge. You know your own desires 
for the future better than I could possibly know them ; 
you have gifts enough, and there remains for you but 
to choose the one career you would follow and stick to 
it. In the end that ’ll be the main thing — to keep to 
the path, whatever it may be that you choose. To 
attempt one thing and then go to another, dropping 
the first, will never bring success to any one. What- 
ever you choose, be careful to know yoil will keep to 
it. If I were in your place — ” 

“Well?” Arthur asked, as his friend hesitated. 
“ Don’t leave me after this fashion, Graham. To in- 
form me that I can choose any course I will isn’t by 


A FERTILE BRAIN. 


295 


any means doing as I requested. I want you to help 
me find the thing that I can do well enough to take 
it for life, like the marriage ceremony, ‘ for better, for 
worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health ’ 
— you know the rest. Well, iBs after something of 
the sort that I must choose ; no shilly-shally thing that 
will fall through of its own accord if given time enough. 
If you were in my place, you were saying. What 
would you do now if you were in my place ? Come, 
it’s almost time to go over to the Browns’, and I want 
this settled, or on the road to being settled, before 
we go.” 

“ But we said we would go over this afternoon,” his 
friend protested. “ We ought not to go this morning ; 
they will not expect us, and you heard them yourself 
speak of some engagement — ” 

“ Bosh ! ” Arthur interrupted, impatiently. “ Their 
engagement doesn’t amount to more than the same 
every day, and if we waited till they had no engage- 
ments we’d never go. I want you to go when they 
don’t expect us. You’ll never find out what Ada is 
unless you discover it for yourself. She’d .never let 
you know ; and even this Mrs. Brown, who sort of 
opened your eyes last night, hasn’t discovered by any 
means the girl’s true self. You heard Ada say your- 


296 


AT BROWN'S. 


self that if the time for going were left to me it 
would be some unexpected time. She ought to know 
me and my ways by this time, Horace Graham, and 
it isn’t for you to object when I am suggesting it for 
your own good. Come, now, put all this out of your 
head and help me plan what my life shall be. You 
and Ada, and one or two of the other fellows — there’s 
Macallister taken to poetry and doing it well, and 
Ned Morris taking up newspaper reporting, and 
Smith taking up botany, and all of them doing it as 
if it were ’the need of bread instead of simply an em- 
ployment 1 in life. You wouldn’t have even such a 
rattle-brained fellow as Arthur Ledyard doing noth- 
ing when he desires to do something and all the other 
fellows are settling down in some profession or other. 
I can’t help it if I wasn’t forced into a profession ; 
but I do think a good many fathers make the mistake 
of not bringing their sons up with that idea. There 
wouldn’t be so many good-for-nothing lives if they 
would. I wish my father ’d made me work, Horace 
Graham ! If I should tell him so, though, he’d laugh 
at me, no doubt, and say I should have strength of 
will to make a profession. You must help me. 
What were you going to say ? ” 

“I hate to advise you,” Horace Graham burst out 


A FERTILE BRAIN. 


297 


presently, a flush on his face. “ Suppose I should 
tell you wrong ? It might spoil your life. But I’ll 
tell what I would do under the circumstances, and 
if you care to do that perhaps something will come 
of it.” 

They were in Ledyard’s private parlor now, and he 
had lighted a cigar, laughing good-naturedly at Mr. 
Graham for refusing the proffer of one. He jat down 
by the table in the center of the room and buried his 
chin in both hands, a frown between his brows, his 
steady gray eyes searching the frank fair face oppo- 
site. Then he continued slowly, his voice very grave, 
as though he were indeed advising for the good or ill 
of this friend’s life : 

“ I think, Arthur, if you would lay your wishes 
plainly, as you have to me, before our old professor at 
college you might indeed be helped toward the end 
you desire in a much more satisfactory manner than 
I could do it. He was always fond of you, you re- 
member, and prophesied a noble ending to your life. 
Or there is Dr. Hamilton, our minister at home. You 
were pretty punctual at services, you know, and he 
likes you immensely, although he has regretted more 
than once that your life is amounting to so little. If 
you should write to either, or both — why not write to 


298 


AT BROWN'S. 


both? — you may be certain of their ready sympathy 
and help if that is in their power. I am not willing 
to take the forming of your life in my hands, Arthur 
Ledyard, for it is all I can do to hold my own life 
in my hands. It’ll be a hard fight ; you know that 
beforehand, but you cannot know it so well as I. 
You’ll be discouraged more than once, and doubtless 
ready to give it all up half a hundred times before you 
see the end from the beginning. Are you satisfied, 
Arthur ? It is all I can do ; I should be no true 
friend of yours if I advised you differently. I wish 
you every success ; that it will come to you no one 
who knows you would doubt. And here’s my hand on 
that, Arthur Ledyard, and long life be with you for 
the perfecting of all you can desire so far as this life 
can give ! There’ll be countless mistakes, you know, 
but, after all, there’s another life when this is finished, 
and our work will be the better for the striving here. 
God bless you, Arthur Ledyard, and crown your per- 
fect work ! ” 

They were good comrades and true ; they had known 
each other since their college days ; they had strug- 
gled up through the same classes in those old college 
days, the one with his quick wit making up for the 
hard study the other spent over his books for their 


A FERTILE BRAIN. 


299 


mastery ; but each kept pace with the other, though 
one was quick and brilliant and the other steady and 
strong to overcome the difficulties in the path of 
knowledge. Arthur Ledyard knew that there was a 
deeper current beneath the strong will and steady 
brain, and although there had passed between them 
few words of more depth than occasional sober con- 
versations, yet he was certain, thinking over this 
sturdy soul lighting its own way upward, that there 
was somewhere beneath these manly characteristics a 
higher power that made the man what he was. Such 
words as he had just uttered had never before passed 
between them, but the strong good-will, the brave, 
kindly eyes, the depth of the low voice, carried to 
him sudden conviction of what had made this young 
fellow so brave in the fight ; and, reaching his hand 
across the table, the strong fingers clasped each other 
with a closer pressure and deeper meaning than ever 
before, and an expression came across Arthur Led- 
yard’s smiling face that sent a gleam of gladness 
through his friend’s anxious heart. Then, with a 
laugh from Ledyard and a smile on the face of his 
friend, the two rose and prepared to go out, Horace 
Graham having yielded to his friend’s desire to go to 
Ada’s that morning instead of waiting until afternoon. 


300 


AT BROWN'S. 


And in the meantime, Miss Deering having kept 
the engagement made between them, the two girls 
were sitting in the little extension off of the bedroom, 
separated by curtains hung by herself with Mrs. 
Brown’s consent. It was a dainty scrap of a room in 
spite of the glaring whitewashed v walls, for here was 
the huge arm-chair ordered up for her by one of the 
village storekeepers, upholstered in warm reds, and 
there was a tiny curtained book-case made from boards 
witli Jack’s help, where they kept their books, with a 
small Webster’s Dictionary, and the latest magazines. 
There was Ada’s easel, with its canvas warm with 
colors and bits of sketches, some tilled in, others sim- 
ply in rough outline, scattered about, and there was 
the one window with its red curtains drawn back now 
to let in the full light of the morning, with the pots 
of blossoming geranium Mrs. Brown had brought up 
with her kindly hands for the further beautifying of 
the tiny studio. It was a girl’s room in every detail, 
and Ada and Clare laughed over it often, thinking of 
the lesser work done by fingers aching for some grand 
work in the world. It was a girl’s room, dainty, 
womanly, cheery with color and light and the pretty 
litter of a living-room ! 

They sat there now, Miss Deering reading from a 


A FERTILE BRA IK 


301 


volume of Mrs. Browning’s poems, Ada at the easel 
putting in the finishing touches to the painting be- 
fore her, the sunlight touching the geranium blossoms 
to drops of blood-red against the white of the window 
casing. Now and then the reader would pause with 
some tender thought in the reading, or she would let 
the book slip down to her lap while her eyes strayed 
to the busy worker before her, the light touching to the 
full the shiny chestnut hair coiled low down the white 
neck, the curves of face and throat perfect and clear. 
Occasionally Ada would glance up, catching the dark 
eyes resting upon her, and query lightly, smiling in 
the happiness of her work, as to the cause for the 
delayed reading. Or she would break in on the low 
voice of the reader with some swift thought wakened 
by the rhythm of the poem or the depth of the con- 
ception under the lines. 

“ There ! ” she looked up now with a flush on her 
cheeks, a sudden thought in her eyes. She held her 
brush suspended as though ready for immediate ac- 
tion when her words should be said. “ There ! Read 
that again, Clare ! Her ‘ Casa Guidi Windows ’ are 
beautiful. I prefer Mrs. Browning’s poems to her 
husband’s because — may be because she is a woman 
and there is woman’s heart under the lines. Her 


802 


AT BROWN'S. 


thoughts are wonderful at times, Clare. Hasn’t this 
reading of her poems given you new ideas of life, 
new thoughts of suffering and bravery? Every time 
I read them I find something new — I find some- 
thing new in almost every thing I re-read — that, too, 
perhaps because I read only those things that have 
given me thought before. There ! Isn’t that true 
— that which you just read ? Go over it again — just 
that part — yes ; who cculd doubt her truth ? 

“ * An ignorance of means may minister 
To greatness, but an ignorance of aims 
Makes it impossible to be great at all 1 ’ 

Do you hear that, Clare Deering ? It is the aim to be, 
not the means, that makes men great. And the eyes 
that are watching — they find life’s beautiful without 
the books ! O, yes, it is the aims, not the means, in 
every thing, Clare! We’re to strive not to stand do- 
ing nothing — ” 

“ But if one can’t strive ? ” protested Miss Deering, 
with a wistful glance up into the shining eyes turned 
from the canvas. “ If one just has to stand, what 
then, Ada ? Every body cannot do as you do ; we 
all haven’t this talent; lots of us haven’t a single speck 
of a talent anywhere. If we’re expected to strive 


A FERTILE BRAIK 


303 


with nothing to strive for, what then ? Somebody 
has to stand aside, you know.” 

“ ‘ They also serve who only stand and wait,’ ” mur- 
mured Ada, softly, with a brilliant smile back at her 
friend, still holding her brush ready for use. “ I 
didn’t mean just that, Clare, dear. I couldn’t mean 
just that, you know. It’s harder standing than going 
ahead in the hardest fight, but tlie standing includes 
the striving to stand with patience. It was harder, 
may be, for you to make yourself stay here at the sana- 
torium, away from home and with no special friends 
and nothing particular to do, than it is now with our 
busy days. Wasn’t it ? Don’t you see what I mean ? 
You were perhaps braver setting yourself aside for the 
good it would bring when all the time you were longing 
to go home and do something and make life worth 
living. It isn’t always these talents that prove the 
bravest souls, Clare Deering ! Do you think it is half 
so grand to set these colors on the canvas, even as care- 
fully as I try to do, with the hope of being some day 
called worthy of my hire, as for Mrs. Brown to go 
about her household cares with those shut lips of hers 
and the noble self-repression of her sorrow? No, 
never, never indeed, Clare ! There will be a special 
smile for her as well as the words when her work is 


304 


AT BROWN'S 


finished. I try to be faithful and do all that comes 
to me to do, but my soul will never reach the heights 
of grandeur that hers will — she, a simple farmer’s 
wife, shut in among the mountains. But go on, 
Clare, with the reading. I am always interrupting 
you. It is so good to have some one like you to read 
with ! I could never have read poems and painted 
pictures at the same time but for you ! ” 

“And think of my poor little lonely life if it 
hadn’t been for you,” said Miss Deering, softly, lift- 
ing the book that had fallen to her lap. “ I enjoy 
every minute of it now as I couldn’t have done had it 
not been for you. I am so glad to have known you ! ” 
The door-bell had rung, but the girls w^ere too 
much occupied with their work to notice it, and pres-* 
ently a light tap came on the door, and Ada called 
her bright “Come in,” pretty certain it was Mrs. 
Brown, who would understand that she would wish to 
see no one during her working-hours ; and, as she ex- 
pected, Mrs. Brown opened the door, saying, quietly : 

“ Mr. Ledyard and a friend of his wish to come 
right up, Miss Ada; but I thought mebby you’d 
rather they waited for you in the parlor. Will you 
see them ? Are you too busy ? If you are I’ll tell 
them — ” 


A FERTILE BRAIK 


305 


“No, you’ll not,” protested a laughing voice be- 
hind her, and Arthur Ledyard’s broad shoulders ap- 
peared in the background, his laughing face somewhat 
flushed, nevertheless, at his daring: “I didn’t see, 
for the life of me, why I shouldn’t come right up to 
your studio here as I always did at home, Ada. I 
have an interest in your work, you know. I’m sure 
a fellow who has taught you to walk ought to be al- 
lowed to express his opinion on your work, especially 
when you have no other critic. Mayn’t we come in, 
Ada? Mrs. Brown wouldn’t let us, but I saw no 
reason for not coming with her. It’s my way, Mrs. 
Brown. You’ll never mind me when you’ve grown 
accustomed to my peculiarities. All my friends say 
so. Are we to be admitted, Ada ? Plead for us, 
Miss Peering. What a pretty studio ! eh, Graham ? 
Mrs. Brown, I wonder at your allowing your flowers 
to fall in the hands of such a girl as Miss Ada ; she 
never waters them, I’ll be bound, and as for stirring 
up the dirt around them — ” 

“There isn’t no need of stirring up the dirt,” 
Mrs. Brown rejoined, mildly, seeing that Ada was 
making the best of the situation, though there was a 
flush on her face, whether of anger or annoyance she 

could not guess ; but she crossed with the laughing 
20 


S06 


AT BROWN'S. 


young man to the window and explained, at liis re- 
quest, how plants should be tended, he remarking 
merrily again on Ada’s inability to care for them. 

And Ada, meanwhile standing as she had risen 
when the young men entered, now laid aside the 
brush with a hand that was steady merely from force 
of will, a quiet greeting on her lips for Horace 
Graham, who stood in the door-way undecided as to 
the right of his friend’s course, a flush on his face also, 
as his grave eyes met steadily the lifted dark eyes 
shutting the soul behind the half-dropped lids. She 
gave him her hand, with some light remark as to the 
state of paint it was in ; but there was not the slightest 
trace of annoyance at being caught at. her work in 
her loose gown and apron, though she stood somewhat 
in front of the picture on the easel, so that he could 
not see it. Miss Deering was joining in the talk at 
the window on the care of flowers, running presently 
on the book she was holding, and the lights on the 
mountains, in all of which Mrs. Brown was drawn 
with kindly willingness, understanding that it was 
the wish of the girl to have her remain. 

“ I am sorry to have disturbed you, Miss Ada,” Mr. 
Graham was saying, slowly, scarcely knowing what 
words he was using in his wrath at himself and his 


A FERTILE BRAIK 


307 


friend for so coming upon the girls in their private 
room. “ Pardon us this time ; it shall never happen 
again. You were busy? Why have you never told 
me of this art of yours, Ada ? Could you not trust 
me as well as those other friends whom you let into 
your work ? Did you think I was less deserving than 
they ? ” 

She shook her head and smiled frankly up in his 
face, flushed as it was still with the eyes dark with 
anger. 

“ No,” she said, gently. “ I consider you one of my 
best friends, Mr. Graham. I am glad you are my 
friend, too ; it is good to have brave friends ; but I — 
well, it was foolish, I suppose, but I wanted to be 
very sure this would amount to something before I 
told you of it. There are so many who try to do 
what they never succeed in accomplishing, either by 
lack of zeal or lack of will ; so I said I would have 
proved my worth by my work before I let you know, 
because you were so bravely doing your part. W omen 
don’t like to be outdone, you know. We want to ful- 
fill our part as well as you. There’s really no reason 
why we shouldn’t, is there ? ” 

“ Women have more power than men for better 
work,” he said, quietly, the flush slowly dying from 


308 


AT BROWN'S. 


his face. He was almost stern in liis gravity of man- 
ner as he stood searching her face. “I am always 
proud to admit another woman into the ranks. Our 
Kittie is as brave a woman as there is in the city, and 
executes her orders in those same ranks with the 
willingness that would make her a general in the 
field. She’s only a clerk in an office, perhaps, but 
she is as noble in that as if she, too, held the power 
of the brush and pencil. I only regret that it isn’t 
yet in our power to place her in the road she wishes 
to enter ; but that, too, will come by and by, after she 
has done this work. She hasn’t given up the hope, 
you know, doubtless, as you say she writes to you ? 
I am glad of that. You can cheer her very much 
and interest her with your life here.” 

The smile left Ada’s lips and she looked up now very 
grave and quiet. It had been rather a forced smile 
from the first, and now she let it die out utterly. 
There was a dawning touch of spirit, a glimpse granted 
the man before her of the soul under the pride a 
woman can put into her eyes to hide their depths, as 
she turned gravely toward the easel behind her, say- 
ing, quietly : 

“ Do you care to see my work, Mr. Graham ? This 
piece is not yet completed ; I was putting in the 


A FERTILE BRAIN. 


309 


finishing touches this morning while Miss Deering 
read aloud. You do not know how pleasant it is to 
have her here. It is a conception of my own ; do 
you like it ? ” 

There was no false pride in her voice as she stood 
with him beside the painting, while Arthur Ledyard, 
with uncommon tact, kept up the running fire of con- 
versation regarding the flowers and mountain-lights 
and the poems of their reading, keeping his eyes 
studiously turned away from the two at the easel. 
She knew she had done a good work ; that there were 
faults in it — faults that perhaps she might not catch 
— she was aware ; but that it showed her care and 
strength of will and ability to do better she knew. 
She was pretty certain, too, that this man at her side 
could tell her the faults in it if he would, but that he 
would grant her the deserved kind words she did not 
doubt. The painting was certainly a beautiful and 
novel conception. The colors, too, had been put in 
with care and the lights softened to tenderness. It 
was a view of Whiteface from Lake Placid — White- 
face deep in snow, with the frozen lake at its feet, the 
carry faintly defined from the lower snow by the 
most delicate shadows. The sun was setting in the 
west, and only the reflected colors were shown on this 


310 


AT BROWN'S. 


eastern mountain. But wliat exquisite colors ! High 
up the heavens were pale golden blue fading off to 
lilacs and pinks of the most delicate shades ; and up 
from the peak floated a mysterious cloud of mist that 
left only the highest point above the mystic gray. This 
mist was shot through here and there with hints of 
amber and crimson, and the peak, rising with its head 
above it, was one mass of fiery light, as if the sun had 
set it afire with his glory to make up for the mystery 
below. Lower down the sides was the dead white snow, 
lying level as if it were a mantle folded about the 
mountain, and this was also softly flushing with the ra- 
diance from above. Far up, just above the lifted head 
of the mountain, just where the mist was rifted as with 
a breath, soared a huge bird, a silhouette on the sky. 
Far away to the right rose Marcy, with Mackintyre 
beyond, aflame in their glory of white ; and the 
frozen lake and the cold lower mountain alone were 
in tender shadow. 

Horace Graham stood beside the little artist and 
gazed upon the picture, at first with a dawning marvel 
in his mind how she could have concealed from him 
this beautiful talent she had so faithfully kept from 
rusting, then with a deeper feeling, a depth of ten- 
derness for this brave, loyal girl doing her work that 


A FERTILE BRA IK. 


311 


perhaps others might have thrown by because of the 
lack of need for its perfecting ; and he stooped down 
to her level suddenly, his eyes brilliant with light. 

“ It is beautiful,” lie said, swiftly. “ I am glad that 
I know you, Miss Ada.” 

She smiled up at him brightly, though the lips 
would tremble slightly as she said, softly : 

“Thank you, Mr. Graham. It is good of you to 
say that. How I have something to say to you. 
Let us go down-stairs,” she added, turning to the 
others gayly. “ This room is plenty large enough for 
Miss Deering and me in our busy hours, but we could 
not think of detaining you here. We may go down 
to the parlor, mayn’t we, Mrs. Brown ? And Mr. 
Ledyard will sing for us — I have caught you now, 
Arthur ! — Miss Deering is fond of music, and I have 
told her you sing pretty well, for you ; so you must 
do your best. Will you like to hear him, too, Mrs. 
Brown?” she added, softly, with swift thought for 
the woman always so thoughtful of her. 

“ There is no escape, I suppose ? ” Mr. Ledyard said, 
with an exaggerated sigh. “ A fellow may as well be 
resigned.” 

But when the piano was waking to his touch, as it 
had not done even under Ada’s practiced fingers, his 


312 


AT BROWN'S. 


voice filling tlie room with its gay song, Ada sat 
with Horace Graham by the farther window, giving 
him a graphic account of the life yonder in the little 
school and her great desire to have Kittie come out 
and take it, for she was certain she could make arrange- 
ments with the committee, and she was so sure it 
would benefit her more than a year elsewhere could 
do. And Horace Graham, listening to the soft voice 
planning this good for his sister, planning as well for 
the good of the children now running wild, realized 
with a suddenness that was like a blow that his good 
resolutions, his stern determination to return as he 
came, at the call of his friend — knew beyond a doubt 
that all these brave thoughts were in vain. And the 
look in his eyes told her before he spoke. 


AMONG THE SHADOWS. 


318 


CHAPTER XVII. 

AMONG THE SHADOWS. 

“Strive — and, having striven, 

Take for God’s recompense that righteousness ! ” 

“ And lips say, * God be pitiful,’ 

Who ne’er said, ‘ God be praised.’ ” 

— Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 

The changing of tlie school management to Ivittie 
Graham’s hands had seemed so easy to Ada that she 
wondered many times she had not thought of it 
before, when she was so anxious for the good of the 
school. There was nothing to do, she told herself, 
but go to the committee and state the facts of the 
case, the need for her friend’s coming to the mount- 
ains, and her ability as a teacher, together with the 
fact that Miss Ketcliam cared nothing for the work. 
It could be done so easily, she said. And she went 
about it without delay, with the full sanction of 
Kittie’s brother, her more than friend, as her heart 
already knew, though no words had passed between 
them — for Horace Graham, with his high sense of 


AT BROWN'S. 


314 

honor, would never ask for her hand here among the 
mountains away from her home. So she went to 
work almost with the old gladness of heart that some- 
how had not come to her so since her mother died 
and she was shut away from the tender care and love 
that had lain so closely between them. It would be 
easy enough to carry out her wish. 

But she had not reckoned for the intervention of 
another girl not so in sympathy with her thoughts and 
aims as to lend her assistance where her power could 
hinder. Ella had never liked Ada. The girl knew it, 
but had done all in her power to do away with this un- 
pleasant feeling, though they were always civil to each 
other and no unkind words had passed. Still, Ella did 
not like Ada and her gentle manner of winning friends. 
The girl’s steady, quiet life, filled with kindly acts, 
would come up to her often with reproach for her own 
unkind feeling toward her; but she had never strength- 
ened her character for forgiveness for even such fan- 
cied slight, and she maintained the same indifferent 
bearing toward Ada, saying to herself that she would 
pay her back sometime for her scheming. What she 
could call scheming no one but herself knew, but so 
she reconciled her cold manner and the hard feeling 
in her heart. 


AMONG THE SHADOWS. 


315 


Ella was not bad at heart ; slie saw her mother’s 
daily life, its brave self-forgetfulness, its noble silence 
of suffering — for she knew her mother suffered far 
more than she considered such wildness as her 
brother’s called for — and she had been taught the 
Catechism thoroughly by her mother. She did not 
care specially for church ; she never went to Sunday- 
school unless her friend, Miss Ketcham, went, and 
then it was only to break the monotony of her life. 
But she was not a bad girl at heart. She was care- 
less of the happiness of others, and never troubled 
herself to make home-life a more pleasant thing or 
win her brothers by gentleness from the wild life 
she saw so clearly was breaking her mother’s heart. 
But there was one element in her nature that made 
up in part for the frailty of character. If once she 
admitted a friend into her life she would keep to her 
faith though every one else should fail her. She 
had tenacity of affection, but the inability to give of 
it broadly or freely. How, she said to herself, she 
was wronged by this girl from the city who would 
win her mother’s heart and the kindly thought of her 
brothers, and if a chance came in her way she would 
repay her for it. And the chance came, sooner, per- 
haps, than she had dreamed. 


316 


AT BROWN'S. 


Ada went to work to consummate lier plans regard- 
ing Ivittie Graham, with a feeling of security and no 
chance for failure. And Ella Brown, with a brilliant 
thought, determined to thwart her. She went to her 
friend at once. She and Miss Ketcham were the 
closest of friends. She told her her story and gained 
the girl’s promise to aid her if she could ; and both 
girls decided that they could. Hot that she cared es- 
pecially for the salary, for it was but little at the most ; 
not that she cared an atom for the children placed 
under her charge ; but if she could assist her friend 
in thwarting this girl she would cling like death to 
her hold of the school. She knew too much, she 
said to herself, with a smile of great satisfaction, to go 
against Ella Brown’s wishes. She would put all her 
claim upon the school, and the committee could not 
force her to give it up so long as she filled the require- 
ments, and they were perfectly satisfied with her at 
the careless examination she had been called to be- 
fore taking the position. They had given her the 
place ; that betokened full confidence in her ability. 
She was reasoning with more depth than she had 
ever cared to rouse for the good of her scholars. If 
they placed her over that school for six months out 
of the year — and there was no school from April to 


AMONG THE SHADOWS. 


317 


September — they could not take the school from her 
without proof that she was incapable. 

But Ada would not be refused. She went to the 
committee at once ; they stated their full confidence 
in Miss Ketcliam’s ability as teacher, and avowed the 
impossibility for them to turn her away so long as 
she fulfilled her duties faithfully. Ada would say 
nothing against the girl. She brought up the lack 
of care for the school ; that the teacher, she had been 
told, would be glad to give it up; that there was 
every cause for them to look at the matter from her 
stand-point. But they smiled down her arguments, 
and still protested their faith in the present teacher. 
Another year, they suggested ; but Ada would listen 
to nothing of the sort. Miss Ketcham was incapable, 
Ivittie was longing for the chance to teach, even be- 
ginning down at such a round as that small mountain 
school, and there must be some way to bring these 
men to see the matter with her eyes. 

Ada went to her friends in perplexity. She told 
of her interview and of the stolid indifference of the 
committee and their stubborn reiteration that the pres- 
ent teacher was perfectly capable. Bobert Maynard 
went into roars of laughter over it ; Arthur Ledyard 
shrugged his broad shoulders and shut his lips very 


318 


AT BROWN'S. 


determinedly under liis mustache that the girl should 
never guess of the insane desire possessing him to fol- 
low Maynard’s example, and vowed his determination 
to see that committee himself and see what real sound, 
solid, common-sense argument would do ; but Horace 
Graham said nothing for the time, pondering within 
his mind for some fulfilling of this plan that would 
place his sister on the road to health, even though the 
salary she would receive would not pay her board. 
She should have the chance, he told himself ; she 
should have the chance if it were God’s will for her 
to come ; and there must be the way for the accom- 
plishment of this purpose if only one could discover 
it in time. 

“ We’ll have Kittie up any way,” Ada said to Clare 
one day, with great determination, shutting her lips 
very close and nodding her head wisely. “ We’ll ask 
Mr. Graham nothing about it, but simply send for 
her on our own responsibility. You’ll like her, Clare. 
She’ll be a friend worth having, and if it’s possible 
she shall have more than the remaining months of 
school term. Yes, I shall send for her, and no one 
can say one single thing against it.” 

She wrote to the girl that day. When once Miss 
Ada had a plan she never let it lie dormant while 


AMONG THE SHADOWS. 


319 


there was any chance for its execution. She sent 
peremptorily for Kittie Graham in a gay little letter 
that told the other girl of the warmth of the heart 
under the merry words ; and with the tickets inclosed 
who could refuse ? So Kittie Graham left the train at 
the little station with the sunlight making the white 
world glorious, and the faces of her brother and 
friends were there ; and Ada thought of her own jour- 
ney and laughed half hysterically as she caught the 
girl’s arms with her two warm hands and gave her 
welcome, while her brother protested his ignorance 
of whom he was to meet when persuaded to come 
with Ada that day. The big double sleigh was ready 
for them, and the girl felt her eyes fill at the beauty 
and pure air and warm welcome surrounding her, 
and one small hand, too delicate and blue-veined for 
health, stole softly out and was laid warmly over 
Ada’s hand lying on the edge of her muff. There 
were no words, but the eyes spoke volumes, and Ada 
turned her face swiftly, with a half-broken laugh to 
hide the tears on the heavy lashes. 

“ And now,” she said, a day or two after, as the 
group of friends filled the parlor of the farm-house, 
Ella being invited in with the gentle thought Ada 
always showed her, and made to feel that she was 


320 


AT BROWN'S. 


one of her friends so far as she would be — “and 
now, Kittie Graham, that we have you here among 
the wilds of the Adirondacks, and the sleighing is so 
grand, and we all are simply longing for a bit of 
jollification, what do you say — listen, ladies and gentle- 
men — what do you all say to a straw-ride to-morrow 
afternoon, starting at one o’clock from here and driv- 
ing to Bloomingdale first to have our pictures taken 
in the load, and then to Placid for dinner, and back 
by moonlight — wait, wait, ladies and gentlemen — 
and inviting every single one of those children from 
the school, with the teacher. Now — yes, I have fin- 
ished — now you may give your reply. All in favor 
of this scheme, hold up their right hand. Thanks. 
All up? Those not in favor of it, groan deeply. Not 
a groan. Thank you again. That proves the weight 
of a woman’s mind. It is moved, seconded, and “car- 
ried unanimously. We will deliver our invitations 
at once. It’s a grand afternoon for coasting ; let’s 
take out the ‘ bob ’ — Jack ’ll let us have it, I know, 
even if he can’t come along himself, though I’d like 
that. And by the way, Jack must come to-morrow, 
mustn’t he, Miss Brown ? And we will take the hill 
around here toward the pond for our coast, and can 
stop at the school-house and deliver our invitations. 


AMONG THE SHADOWS. 


321 


May we make you spokesman, or spokeswoman, Miss 
Brown ? Can’t you go with us this afternoon really ? 
I am so sorry ! But if you cannot go to-day and to-mor- 
row, too, of course we prefer the to-morrow. Come, 
let’s start at once. I’m quite enthusiastic over it. 
We will ask Mrs. Morgan at the sanatorium to go; 
she would make a delightful chaperon, and the drive 
will do her good ; wont it, Clare ? I only wish your 
mother could go, Miss Brown. Yes, I know she has 
promised to drive over with Jim to see some one who 
is ill out on the lower road ; but I wish she could go. 
Now for our coasting. You’ll never come back with 
those pale cheeks, Kittie Graham. You’ll have the 
reddest cheeks and the brightest eyes and the most 
ravenous appetite you ever imagined. Yes, Arthur, 
as red as the fairy in that old book you are forever 
reminding me about. There’s Jack down at the 
barn. I’ll go after him and get him in our plan. 
Jack’s my champion, you know.” She laughed and 
vanished, and her friends smiled among themselves 
wdien she was gone at the ready heart and hand. 

The next day being beautiful, and the ordered carry- 
all at the house half an hour before the appointed 
hour to start, Mr. Ledyard and his two friends having 

driven over with it, the old farmdiouse was alive with 
21 


322 


AT BROWN'S. 


merry voices and hurrying feet, as eager as children 
over the novel outing. There were horns, of course, 
and Arthur had his flute, and the bells made as gay 
music as though they, too, were off for a merry-mak- 
ing, the four strong horses holding their heads up as 
proudly as if it were a royal pageant instead of a chil- 
dren’s outing. And the children were waiting for 
them, crowded around the school-house steps, while 
Miss Ketcham and Ella Brown, who had gone down 
to wait with her friend, were inside at the stove getting 
thoroughly warm, they said, for the cold ride ; in real- 
ity they were talking over the strange act of kindness 
from the very girl they would injure if they could. 
But the horns were blowing and the bells chiming 
gayly, and the children shouted, and there was song 
and laughter and high spirits ; and they put away the 
deeper thoughts and went with the others, as if such 
a thing as unkindly thoughts were impossible under 
those blue heavens in the sunshine. 

“ To Bloomingdale first, of course,” was the order ; 
and the horses turned in the wide school-grounds, 
leaving a track that the children looked at often, re- 
membering the royal day they spent among the straw 
in the huge sleigh to the music of bells and horns and 
laughter, with the sunlight over the world. And the 


« 


AMONG THE SHADOWS. 


323 


sleighing was perfect, though now and then in the 
valley they followed the made road through barn- 
yards and meadows, the giant drifts making travel in 
the main road impossible ; and there were the horns, 
with their shrill calls, broken by shreds of song or 
laughter, with the bright faces of the children like 
exclamation points along the floor of the sleigh. The 
picture was taken as if just caught jn the midst of its 
life, and an order left for enough for every one ; and 
then the horses were turned toward Placid, and they 
sprang to their duty with the zest of old blood made 
young by the light and music. 

“ Your fairy-stories worked to some good, after 
all, Ada,” Arthur Ledyard said, leaning across to the 
girl opposite him with Kittie Graham beside her, sur- 
rounded by the eager children, as though in truth 
they recognized here something out of the common 
order of every-day life. He was laughing gayly, but 
his eyes had the deep light she liked to see in them, 
and she nodded, with her bright smile, as much for 
the children as for him. “ Cinderella’s godmother, 
with the broomstick and pumpkin, are nowhere. You 
would set the red lips to every one, I see. Give us a 
grand old tallyho for that, boys — Ada and the fairies 
and the Princess Kosemouth ! One, two, three — ” 


324 


AT BROWN'S. 


“ And give ns fi Boy Blue ’ for the children, Ar- 
thur,” Ada said. “ We’ll join the chorus. We’re in 
the haystack, I’m sure ; it’s quite appropriate.” And, 
with Ellen at her knee, one hand clasped in the two 
child-hands, and Kittie Graham’s bright eyes full 
of the day’s happiness and roses in the thin cheeks, 
leaning fondly toward her on one side, Miss Eetcham 
laughing gayly with Mr. Maynard on the other, her 
voice, clear in its sweetness, took up the gay words as 
the chorus came in, keeping a sort of rhythm with 
the bells : 

“ Little Boy Blue, come, blow your horn ! 

The sheep in the meadow, the cows in the cornl 

Where’s the boy who looks after the sheep ? 

He’s under the haystack — fast asleep 1 ” 

But down on the open Placid road the wind cut too 
sharp for singing, and they nestled among the straw 
with the robes around them, still bravely merry. 

“ Some day we must get up a party like this to go 
to the lumber-camp, Kittie,” Ada said. “ Jack says 
it’s worth going to see. I wish Jack could have come 
with us — and Mrs. Brown, too. Don’t you like her, 
Kittie ? Isn’t she just like a woman in a book ? She’s 
wonderful to me.” 

“Yes,” Kittie said, with a merry side-glance that 


AMONG THE SHADOWS. 


325 


was still tender ; “ and I know some others, too, Ada. 
Isn’t life wonderful up here \ I shall remember 
these days forever.” 

And her brother, on the other side, caught the 
words in a silence between him and Mrs. Morgan, the 
chaperon of the party, and the glow in his heart set a 
glow in his face that no one saw. 

They had sent word down to one of the hotels that 
they were coming and ordered a dinner, so that there 
was no inconvenience of that sort ; and after the din- 
ner, which was in truth marvelous to the children, the 
huge sleigh was ordered out again, and in the sunset 
light the gay party set out for home, intending to 
arrive as near eight o’clock as was possible on account 
of the children. The sunset was magnificent among 
the hills, and through the woods the lights streamed 
like molten gold set in a mist and mystery among the 
stately pines. And then the moon came up royal 
and round, and the mountains near lifted their rugged 
shoulders to the light and were softened by the ten- 
derness, and the stars were alive in the quivering 
ether, and the beauty of the night was like a marvel- 
ous poem written in God’s hand on the firmament 
for the reading of his people ; and a silence fell over 
the party, save the children, as if the wonder of God’s 


326 


AT BROWN'S. 


creation set a seal upon tlieir lips. Then, softly at 
first, as if she were shy of the heart-depths of her 
voice wakened by this beauty, Ada’s voice lifted the 
jubilant cry of wonder and gladness: 

“Holy, holy, holy, Lord God Almighty! 

Early in the morning our song shall rise to thee.” 

And one after another the voices joined in the hymn, 
the soft soprano and contralto mingled with the voices 
of the men in a chorus that laid a stillness over the 
children by its beauty and grandeur ; and there was 
a glitter of tears on the dark lashes over Kittie Gra- 
ham’s eyes as the voices died away through the woods 
and the night that no one saw but God and Robert 
Maynard beside her ; and even the shrug of astonish- 
ment from Miss Ketcliam, taken up by Ella Brown, 
gave place to silence like the children’s as the hymn 
went on and the heavens leaned above them so 
grandly written across by the God they praised at the 
ending of this glad day, and the cold night-winds 
bore all unkind thoughts away. But Miss Deering’s 
voice died down too, presently, the tender heart under 
its proud shield stirring to full life, touched by the 
beauty and solemnity and the knowledge that this was 
no simple song on light lips, but the gladness of a 


AMONG THE SHADOWS. 


327 


heart in the glory of His works ; and the words died 
on her lips and the cry rose in her heart while Ada’s 
song went on in its tenderness and praise. 

“ I knew your cheeks would be rosy,” she said, 
by and by, stooping to Kittie, with her soft fingers 
lifting the delicate face in the moonlight. There 
w r ere no tears on the lashes now, and the soft dark 
eyes smiled for answer into the bending dark eyes of 
her friend. “ There is some magic in this air for new 
life and new colors. Are you sorry you came up here, 
Kitty Graham, in spite of the gay life you left ? ” 
They were just rounding the hill that led up toward 
the farm-house, and the moonlight was broad and 
full, striking the snow into innumerable diamonds and 
crystals piled on bending cedar-branches and fences 
and rocks. She laughed softly as she asked the ques- 
tion, expecting no reply, and patting the hand lying 
outside the muff like a bit of snow ungloved to the 
winds. Then she pulled up the robe around the girl 
as she added, “ But you mustn’t take cold the very 
first time you venture out, Kittie. You’ll never ap- 
preciate it if you should.” 

“ One might think you Miss Graham’s grandmoth-. 
er,” Robert Maynard said, laughing heartily. “ You 
have the air of seventy at least.” 


828 


AT BROWN'S. 


“ That is more of a compliment than you think,” 
was the merry rejoinder. “ But I know better than 
you that seventy is far off from me still. I haven’t 
the peace that comes with it, you know r .” 

“ Nor the gray hair,” added Arthur Ledyard, se- 
verely, “ unless you wear a wig, Miss Ada : and wigs 
are not becoming.” 

“ And she couldn’t keep it on if she had one,” 
joined in Mr. Maynard, “ for she’d be forever push- 
ing it awry with that habit of hers of scrambling her 
fingers through her hair when in a c fine frenzy ’ of 
genius — ” 

“ And, besides, she wouldn’t be Miss Ada with 
a wig over her brown hair,” added Mr. Graham, 
quickly, to cover the rush of color to the cheeks at 
mention of her work. 

“ She wouldn’t be Miss Ada at all if she weren’t so 
perfectly frank,” said Miss Deering, quietly ; “ and 
you might learn a lesson of thoughtfulness from her 
too,” she added, with a swift glance up to the young 
man beside her. “ I notice you generally take pretty 
good care you have plenty of robe over you, but if 
the wind should happen to blow ours away we may 
catch it back again ourselves if we can — ” 

“ Ten thousand pardons ! ” was the rapid reply, as 


AMONG THE SHADOWS. 


329 


the fair head was bared in the moonlight and a burst 
of laughter hid the flush on his face. “ Haven’t yon 
enough robe, Miss Deering ? Are you cold ? Have 
I all the robes ? I’ll own I was very comfortable, but 
I didn’t dream that you were suffering from the cold 
because I might have all the robes.” 

“ You’re absurd,” she said, impatiently. They were 
all looking at her, and she hated to be looked at. 
“ But it’s just like men ! We happen to say some- 
thing that touches you, and you think we speak on 
our own accounts, when we never think of ourselves 
at all. I don’t see why you can’t be sensible.” 

“ I was flattering myself I had grown much more 
sensible since knowing you,” he said, gently, in an 
undertone ; but she would not listen, and turned her 
earnest face away to the moonlit mountain toward the 
east. 

“ We’ve had a lovely time,” Miss Ketcham was say- 
ing to Ada as the horses toiled up the steep hill. “ I 
thank you very, very much, Miss Ada, both for my- 
self and the children. They aint had such a time 
since they were born, I guess. It’s been ever so much 
fun.” 

“ I’m glad you liked it,” Ada answered, gently, 
wondering in her heart how she could soften the girl 


330 


AT BROWN'S. 


toward lierself and gain the teacher’s place for Kittie. 
“ While this sleighing lasts we must go to the lumber- 
camp some day. They say it is quite a sight. The 
children would like it, too, I think.” 

“ Well, I should say so ! ” was the astonished an- 
swer. “ They aint had no such time as this before, 
an’ a ride to the lumber-camp would be splendid ! ” 

“ And I think I shall sleep better than I have in 
months, Miss Ada,” Mrs. Morgan said, softly, leaning 
toward her. “ And I am certain my dreams to-night 
will be pleasant.” 

“ Of angels and such,” Robert Maynard said, laugh- 
ing. “We all dream of angels at times.” 

“ Let me know the next time you dream of such,” 
Arthur Ledyard rejoined, laughing derisively. “ It 
would be worth knowing, Maynard.” 

Then the horns were lifted, and such a blast sent 
out on the clear air as the echoes, astonished, threw 
back and forth in the shadows and bore away to the 
lulls, and the horses started up briskly at the sound 
under the whip of the driver, just as the swift thud 
of a galloping horse rang down the hill and around 
the bend ahead, and full in the broad moonlight under 
the quiet sky dashed Jack Brown, with a face match- 
ing the snow flying under the hoofs of the horse. Mo 


AMONG TEE SHADOWS. 


331 


slackening of tlie rein on the outstretched neck of his 
horse at the shout of inquiry sent out to him as he 
dashed past, and the load of merry straw-riders felt 
their own faces blanch with the strangeness of the 
sight as the horses stopped where they were to catch 
the answer sent back on the frosty air, broken by the 
galloping hoofs, but connected enough for horror : 

“ M arm’s dyin ’ — goin' fer Bill — ” 


332 


AT BROWN'S. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

NATURAL CONCLUSIONS. 

“ Not even Christ himself 
Can save man else than as he holds man’s soul.” 

— Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 

But Mrs. Brown did not die. What saved her, 
some of her friends said, they could not imagine ; 
there was the reckless driving of Jim’s hand, made 
unsteady with the drink he had stopped for at the vil- 
lage in spite of his mother’s plea, and the upset just 
where the road touched the edge of the steep bank 
that ran down to the river fields. The horse, fright- 
ened at the strange thing at his heels, sprang for- 
ward wildly and slipped — slipped and stumbled and 
w r ent down, down through the snow and stubble 
against the fence below, breaking his leg — shot after- 
ward to put him out of his misery. But Mrs. Brown 
was thrown out on her face, striking a stump as she 
fell, and lying unconscious in the white light of the 
sunshine, the blood upon her face darkening its rugged 
lines of care. And Jim ? Jim alone was unhurt. He 


NATURAL CONCLUSIONS. 


333 


fell clear of the cutter, and the reins were pulled from 
his hands as the horse went straggling down the slope ; 
and picking himself up witli a curse on liis lips for 
the loss of the horse, the curse died where it was on 
his lips at sight of the ghastly face of his mother 
white as the snow, its pillow. The sight sobered him. 
lie was rough and careless, and laughed unbeliev- 
ingly when his mother argued gently against this 
drinking habit ; but in his heart there was a tender 
spot for her. And there she lay* dead — he was sure 
she was dead — killed by liis recklessness and the 
drink that had made him incapable of managing the 
horse with the drifts so deep in the road. They were 
not far from a farm-house, and Jim, after the first wild 
burst of horror and despair, called for the assistance 
he so much needed ; and under the rough but kindly 
treatment of the woman there the pallor of the set 
face gave place to a slow life-hue, and the grave eyes 
opened upon the anxious faces around her — upon the 
agonized face of Jim bending above her; and the 
thin, stern lips slowly parted in the first smile they 
had known for who knew how long save the long- 
suffering heart \ Then she asked to be taken home, 
and though they tried to overrule her wish, knowing 
that the ride through the cold air might do her great 


334 


AT BROWN'S. 


injury, yet she would not take their no, but insisted, 
saying between her weakened breaths that she must 
go at once. So one of the farmer’s horses w T as har- 
nessed, for the other horse had been humanely put out 
of his misery by the man, and the cutter was broken 
to uselessness ; and Jim Brown, now perfectly sober, 
his rough face quivering in its fear, bore his mother 
out and arranged for her comfort so far as was in his 
power, her head upon his shoulder, his arm clasping 
her close, with a tenderness he liad never before shown 
her; and so they drove away, the last drive they 
should ever take together, Jim thought bitterly to 
himself. And when they had her at home, and will- 
ing neighbors came in to do what they could in Ella’s 
absence, and the doctor had come with his kind face 
and instant interest in the relief of suffering, and had 
to acknowledge that the injuries were undoubtedly 
internal, save the wound upon the forehead, and that 
he could not tell — then the quiet voice had asked, so 
faint and low the words were almost indistinct, for 
her oldest boy, for Bill, the worst of all her children 
— the one who had cut into her heart so with his wild 
life. At the words of the doctor, uttered out of hearing 
of the ears so quick to hear of the trouble of others, 
that Bill should come at once if he w r as coming — then 


NATURAL CONCLUSIONS. 


335 


it was that Jack, his boyish heart swelling with sor- 
row, his boyish lips quivering in their struggle to 
keep back the cry that would rise in his throat and 
choke him, brought out Sorrel’s mate and flung him- 
self upon his back without a saddle, and was off with the 
wind for his brother at the lumber-camp ten miles away. 

The horns of the merry-makers were hushed, and 
the laughter died away. The warm color went out 
of Ada’s face, her memory going back to her own 
mother’s death, and the cry of Ella struck down on 
her heart like something far off, like the echo of her 
own cry wdien the death-angel laid his touch upon 
her mother’s lips ; and then, with the thought of her 
own great loneliness upon her, she leaned over and 
laid her hand, with its tender pressure, over the 
clasped hands in the girl’s lap. She uttered no word, 
but the tenderness of the action was enough. They 
drove on in silence, a quiet group leaving the sleigh 
at the farm-house, while the teacher and children 
were taken home, and Miss Deering, with Mrs. Mor- 
gan and the young men from the hotel, going on 
with them to be left, the ladies at the sanatorium, the 
gentlemen at their hotel. 

“ I don’t know what to do,” Ada was saying to 
Kittie, as they walked np the open yard, Ella having 


336 


AT BROWN'S. 


hurried into the house without a word for the others. 
“ It is dreadful for us to be here, and jet there isn’t 
any other place for us to go, for of course it wouldn’t 
be very nice for us to go to one of the hotels in the 
village, us two girls alone. And yet I can’t bear to 
stay here with this trouble upon them, and their 
hearts and hands full, and nothing we can do for 
them. And she was such a woman, Ivittie Graham ! 
If ever there was a heroine she was one. How will 
Jack ever get his brother ? Poor Jack, with his great 
love in his boyish heart ! And what will they do — all 
of them, without her? She filled the house with her 
gentleness; she smoothed every thing that was hard 
if she could.” 

But Mrs. Brown did not die. Jack brought his 
brother back as swift as the swiftest horses could 
bring him, and the household seemed stricken useless 
by the blow upon them. Jim was nearly crazed with 
grief. He ate nothing ; he would not sleep ; he sat 
beside the bed as if turned into stone with sorrow, 
with self-accusation. The gentle girls in the room 
just across the hall from where the mother lay took 
upon their hands the work that no one seemed to 
know how to do, and Ella, with her pale face and 
wide eyes full of terror, clung to them with almost 


NATURAL CONCLUSIONS. 


337 


unconscious tenacity, clinging to them for comfort 
when all else seemed to have left her. They did not 
go away, for no one would listen to that, Ella crying 
that she could do nothing without them ; and so the 
strangeness of life fell into theirs, and the things they 
had tried so hard for were given them without striv- 
ing “in God’s own good time,” as everything is. 
And the life bound to earth by a thread, yielding at 
times, it seemed, yet held to earth, slowly regained its 
place in the household, though it was many weeks ere 
the old strengtli came back. But what cared she 
when back to her heart was given the wayward heart 
of her oldest “ boy,” and out of the hands of drink 
Jim was held by the knowledge of what had come so 
near to them through its power ? 

And Kittie Graham? The children of that little 
school-house on the hill loved Kittie Graham as they 
had never before known what it was to love; and 
Miss Ketch am and Ella Brown became as warm 
friends of the little bright-faced school-mistress as one 
could wish for. Ada, returning to her home when 
the spring came and the months of her stay were over, 
smiled through her tears as she parted from her and 
Clare Deering and her other friends at the little sta- 
tion, as she whispered her tender farewell to Kittie’s 
22 


338 


AT BROWN'S. 


lifted face, and bade her keep Miss Deering one of 
her truest friends. 

“It’s so nice to know I am leaving each of you 
with a friend ! ” she said, smiling bravely, though 
the tears would come as the girls crowded around 
her. “ And I shall come out to you during the sum- 
mer if it is possible. I mustn’t forget papa, though, 
you know, and how lonely he is without mamma or me. 
Good-bye, Miss Ketcham. Good-bye, Miss Brown. 
.Take care of these two friends I leave with you. If 
I don’t come out before I shall certainly come to take 
Jack back with me in the fall, when he is to enter 
school. Don’t forget that, Jack. We’re to be com- 
rades still, remember. Even the fact that you didn’t 
find me a single wdldcat or bear for amusement 
makes no difference. Good-bye; don’t forget that. 
You’re good to care to see me off, Mr. Perkins. You 
saw me on my arrival, though, and that makes me 
glad to see you when I leave. What should I have 
done without you that day ? I haven’t forgotten it, 
and whenever I think of the Adirondacks, which 
will be often indeed, I shall remember the friend I 
found waiting for me at the station when I came in 
search of a person whose full name I did not know. 
Good-bye, every body, good-bye ! ” 


NATURAL CONCLUSIONS. 


339 


She looked very sweet as she stood on the platform 
waving her handkerchief to the friends at the station 
door- way ; and then the train crawled out of sight, and 
the watchers left behind felt as if some of the sunlight 
had gone from them. 

And when the late summer days had come, and a 
gay party met again in the farm-house parlor, Ada’s 
father and Kittie’s mother being the only new addi- 
tions, a new life seemed to have fallen upon some of 
them in spite of the short weeks of their separation. 
Ada was herself, thoughtful for others, doing her best 
to make her happy heart brighten the hearts around 
her. Her care for her father and her sweet thought 
for Mrs. Graham brought a strange light in the 
quiet eyes of Mrs. Brown, watching her often when 
she did not dream of it. Miss Deering had grown 
more womanly. There was still the frankness that 
made her so like a child, but the black eyes were ten- 
der in peace, and the red lips held no subtle restless- 
ness. Kittie Graham — Kittie Graham, with those lit- 
tle children giving the warmth of their love to her — 
was as happy a girl as one would wish to see, and the 
bright eyes and rosy cheeks and rounded form proved, 
as Ada said, that the Adirondacks had done their 


340 


AT BROWN'S. 


share for her. And Robert Maynard, laughing now 
free-hearted ly, recounted liis adventures and misad- 
ventures in the field of life-work suggested for him by 
the men whom Horace Graham had sent him to in his 
wish to make something of his life. As a reporter, 
with his versatile manner of description, he was mak- 
ing a success of it. And he, again meeting this brave 
young teacher, knowing the struggle of her life, 
thought also that she was as happy and sweet and 
true as any girl he would care to sec, even with his 
list of friends. Arthur Ledyard, too, was there. The 
circle was complete. But he laughingly declared that 
he and Mr. Graham must be sworn enemies in spite 
of the vacation at the mountains, for he could, of 
course, never agree to fighting for a place along-side 
him with his superior knowledge. For he, too, had 
taken up law with his friend, and, though it was a 
hard struggle, he would conquer in some sort of 
fashion, he said. But his friends predicted a greater 
future for him than such fiat success. 

But out of all this Ada, returning home with her 
father and friends and Jack, still her “ comrade,” re- 
membered perhaps as the sweetest of all the words of 
her friends the few low words from Mrs. Brown as 
she went back for a last kindly good-bye : 


NATURAL CONCLUSIONS. 


341 


“ Good-bye, Miss Ada. ’Taint been such a bad win- 
ter, after all, as we expected, has it ? A sort o’ sum- 
mer has come into my life, I think. But if you knew 
how many times you’ve helped me from givin’ up — 
well, ’taint no use of wasting words. I know and 
the Lord knows what you’ve been to me this winter. 
May he give you always the peace of his presence in 
trial and in happiness, though happiness oughter be 
for such as you ! Come up to us next winter if you 
want to. We aint used to taking boarders in winter, 
but we’d be glad to have you. And when you and 
Mr. Graham — well, w T ell, good-bye ! ” 

And the tears were on Ada’s lashes as the words 
returned to her, while the train bore her back along 
the road she had so sadly traveled less than a year 
before. But God knew what peace was in her heart 
for all that. And if God knows — 


THE END. 

































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